


Infectious

by evilmouse



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebels, Star Wars: Thrawn Series - Timothy Zahn (2017)
Genre: Angst and Porn, Awkward Sexual Situations, Cheunh Language (Star Wars), Eventual Romance, F/M, Fuck Or Die, Fusion of Star Wars Legends and Disney Canon, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Language Kink, Medical Conditions, Oral Sex, POV Alternating, Plot As Excuse for Porn, Porn With Plot, Quarantine, Rough Sex, Virus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:27:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 48,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25320856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilmouse/pseuds/evilmouse
Summary: Her ship attacked and then destroyed, Governor Pryce's escape pod crash lands on Firrerre, a plague world under Imperial interdiction after its population was decimated by a mysterious hive virus.TheChimaerajust happens to be in the sector.
Relationships: Arihnda Pryce/Thrawn | Mitth'raw'nuruodo
Comments: 274
Kudos: 161





	1. Latency

“I’m afraid I have some bad news, sir.”

Thrawn had expected as much. When his XO came to his personal quarters in the middle of the night, it was unlikely to be anything else.

Commander Faro stood awkwardly, half at attention, half at rest, clearly discomfited by the sight of her commanding officer in his sleep pants.

_Lips dry, eyes wide, adrenaline-infused. Fingers twisting, weight shifting._

Yes, this was most unlike Faro. 

“Report, Commander.”

His voice was clipped, authoritative. Thrawn suspected ingrained discipline was the most useful way of extracting Faro’s "bad news" quickly and thoroughly. He stood straight, as if he weren’t bare-chested and shoeless before her. At the same time, Thrawn braced himself internally. Guessing was something he was good at—logical extrapolations where he excelled. But he had no idea what had so upset the woman opposite.

“Yessir.” 

_Deep breath, hands fisting, eyes struggling to stay on his._

“At approximately 0200 hours shiptime, 0600 Galactic Standard, Governor Pryce’s transport was attacked upon its return from a routine trade delegation to Bakura.”

Faro exhaled in a puff, perhaps giving him an opportunity to ask questions, but Thrawn simply nodded for her to continue. He felt the numb disassociation that often accompanied sentient grief. _Pryce was killed_ , he thought, even as the rational part of his brain chastised him not to jump to conclusions.

“It's not clear as to the perpetrators at this time, but the ship’s captain indicated in his communications with Central Ops that there was no time to evacuate the Governor.”

_Faro’s voice wavers, eyes blinking rapidly. She is failing at maintaining composure._

Thrawn took inventory of the facts and realized there were very few. Questioning _could_ perhaps assist.

“Karyn.” His voice stayed even—whatever shock Thrawn felt not yet manifested. The name had the desired effect, and Faro snapped her head rigid in surprise. “Any facts as you have them, please. Why was the Governor in Bakura? Where were they en route to Lothal? What was the last communication from the _Nosoi_? Were any demands made prior to the attack? Ship logs transmitted to Central?”

The barrage of queries helped, he could see the improvement instantly. 

_Pupils focusing, eyes narrowing, throat tightening._

Faro quickly swallowed and nodded once. “According to the incident report, the trade delegation was related to the manufacture of repulsorlift coils. For the Defender project. They were headed back to Lothal and brought out of hyperspace with presumed illegal interdictors in the Zuma sector. The ship’s captain commed a distress signal and noted the Governor and her security team were missing.” She swallowed again, meeting his eyes. “The transport was completely destroyed. They transmitted data up until the end. Fragments are being analyzed now.”

“We are the closest capital ship to the Zuma sector, I take it?” It wasn’t as if Pryce would be the first Imperial Governor assassinated, nor the last, and typically that sort of news waited until the morning briefing. There was a reason his ship had been notified so quickly.

“Yes, Grand Admiral. Coruscant requested our technicians glean any information regarding the assailants from the ship logs and holo records, if salvageable.”

Thrawn sat heavily in the Kesslerite chair in his foyer. 

_Completely destroyed._

“Escape pods deployed? Any sign of survivors?”

“The first thing I asked to be checked, sir. The transmitted data was corrupt; it's being reconstructed now. I came here as soon as we received the report. And I have already taken the liberty of directing the _Chimaera_ to the site of the attack.”

This last was delivered with a hint of nervousness, but Thrawn was grateful for Faro's initiative. He wanted his officers to anticipate his orders, and complying with High Command's technical request made repositioning the ship an obvious course of action.

“Thank you.”

The language of Basic was clunky, to Thrawn’s mind, at times like this. “Thank you” was an acceptable but inadequate thing to say to someone delivering news of an ally’s death. 

_Pryce_ ' _s death._

In Cheunh, he had an arsenal of words to convey the regretful receipt of a death notice, some with gratitude directed to the messenger, others laden with bitterness, grief, or respect. Basic lacked nuance, something he felt keenly at this moment.

“I’m sorry sir,” Faro mumbled. 

Thrawn stood up, placing a hand briefly on the woman’s shoulder. “There is a proverb in my native language, Commander, that applies here.” She met his eyes, and he removed his fingers.

“ _K'ir nah ttin'i csazan'he'i ch'an'ciuh to can'caseher._ ”

“Sir?”

“Do not plot vengeance before the funeral.”

_Eyes brightening, shoulders stiffening. Her breathing slows._

“Very good, Grand Admiral. Shall I get back to the bridge, then? Commander Lues is working with his team on the data now.”

“Dismissed, Commander.”

~~

Total darkness and a stabbing jolt of agony in her leg—that was the extent of Pryce’s sensory awareness when she came to. She could barely remember anything except the smoke, the alarms, the horrible, acrid smell of burning electrical components as she raced through the ship. Her security contingent had been cut off, her escort and staff unresponsive on the comm. 

Pryce winced, another flash, an image scalded in her memory. The Rebel bastards had blown her ship in half. That was why she hadn’t been able to summon her team—they had been set adrift in the vacuum of space by …

The burning in her leg made her shudder. Great, she was probably going into shock. Pryce twisted, disregarding anything but the immediate urge to _move_. The reason for the pain materialized abruptly, accompanied by another streak of nerve-searing fire down her limb. She was pinned. Something heavy, steely, and completely immovable held her in place.

So the escape pod had landed. _Crash_ -landed, and now she was stuck on an asteroid or some other rock in the middle of the galaxy. She had to move—she _had_ to. The comms may be fried, but they may not be. The pod had rations, and the thought brought an ache of emptiness to her stomach. She was ravenous.

But she couldn’t see…and everything hurt. Maybe she could just stay here a little longer, just a little, Pryce thought, before she slipped back into unconsciousness.

~~

Thrawn was all too aware of the importance of haste. Time was the most critical factor in post-disaster response. The likelihood of finding any survivors from the _Nosoi_ was already infinitesimal, but not zero. Forty minutes after he had joined Commander Faro on the bridge, their slicer had provided the slimmest ray of hope—two escape pods had deployed from the ship. One apparently a malfunction, with no life signs aboard, the other, one life form's signature. No transmissions had been sent from either vessel, but the reconstructed data indicated angle and trajectory. 

Returning to his office, Thrawn pulled up charts of the Zuma sector. It was likely that the _Nosoi's_ assailants had known of its departure from Bakura, and therefore equally likely that someone on that planet had been complicit in the massacre. If the _Chimaera_ did not succeed in locating at least one of the escape pods—he had instructed his crew to treat both as occupied—the next course of action was a stop on Bakura.

Imperial High Command had commed to confirm the Grand Admiral was authorized to investigate, so long as it did not ultimately interfere with the scheduled arrival of the _Chimaera_ back to the Lothal sector. A new Governor would be swiftly installed, and the commander of the Seventh Fleet would be expected to attend the inauguration and brief the incumbent.

The chime on his desk sang, and Thrawn punched the comm channel open.

“Yes?”

There was no disguising the undercurrent of fatigue in the single syllable, much to his own disappointment. Thankfully, it was Faro.

“Sir, we’ve calculated arrival at the site of the attack in one standard hour.”

With curt thanks, Thrawn broke the call and returned to his cabin, preparing for the sight that awaited them.

~~

Swimming in and out of lucidity, Pryce finally managed to focus long enough to explore the dark corner of the escape pod, where she was imprisoned by debris. Stretching out her arms and twisting her torso, she slowly touched every surface. Her eyes had never adjusted to the dark, and somewhere, in a vague, denied corner of her mind, she accepted that it might mean she was now blind. But she was still breathing, and she was hungry, and she was an Imperial Governor, dammit, and someone would be looking for her. They had to be.

_Thrawn._

His name appeared in her thoughts without warning. Thrawn.

He was the smartest man she’d ever met. If anyone could find her, he could, but she would do her damnedest to make sure of the fact.

Prolonged consciousness was a struggle, but the hollow ache in her empty stomach was a powerful motivator. For some reason, one she would rather not contemplate, the previous pain in her trapped leg no longer registered. Aware of only the texture of the hard floor beneath, her thin fingers groped sightlessly. Hissing as she touched something sharp, Pryce winced and continued, feeling a trickle of blood along her thumb. Proof she was awake, at least. This wasn't the standard brand of nightmare, unfortunately, vanquished by the dawn.

Her search was painstaking and thorough, but there was nothing within arms’ reach that wasn’t bolted down. No lights, no controls, no keycodes, weapons, or datapad. Pryce surrendered to the floor with a grunted curse. 

She must have forgotten something. 

It couldn’t end like this.

A shooting star of agony sizzled along her free leg, as if to remind her she had two of them. Jerking upright with a surge of adrenaline, Pryce felt something bang against the toe of her boot, just before it skittered across the inky space. Cursing again, she arced her heel out as far as possible. Luck—so elusive over the last however many hours—finally was on her side.

The small, flattened cylinder scraped against the durasteel floor. Every movement was torture, but Pryce grit her teeth and continued, thanking the gods that she was as flexible as she was. It was excruciating, the sluggish progression of the device towards her hip. Her leg hooked, bending awkwardly upwards, until her fingers at last seized the comm behind her contorted ankle.

She took a deep breath, displeased at how the oxygen seemed to rattle out of her lungs on the exhale. Another slow inhalation, controlled release. 

“This is Governor Pryce,” she tried speaking to the air, a practice phrase.

That wouldn’t do at all, her voice brittle and squeaky. 

“This is Governor Pryce,” she said again, injecting as much authority into the identification as she could muster. Better. Not perfect, but at least she didn’t sound like an abused tooka.

Repeating the phrase twice more, she finally felt able to summon the courage to thumb open the comm channel. If the device had been broken or damaged—

Pryce cut off the thought before completion. It would work. It had to.

~~

The _Chimaera_ had circled the debris field for one hundred standard minutes, the maximum time its Grand Admiral had allotted for investigation. The verdict from the engineers and catastrophic analysts was unanimous—one escape pod had taken an Inner Rim trajectory, jettisoned at approximately eighty degrees from the location of the shipwreck.

There was undeniably some promise in the analysis, although there was nothing in that direction in space for some distance. Thrawn gave the order for the _Chimaera_ to follow the same heading, diverting most of the Star Destroyer’s power to its scanners, and retreated to his office.

The star maps were unhelpful, but after much consideration, one long blue finger traced the path to a planet called Firrerre. It set off an alarm somewhere deep in his brain, but, frustrated, Thrawn couldn’t recall the reason. He reached for his datapad as the comm on his desk chimed “urgent.”

“Thrawn,” he snapped, aggravation and stress embedded in the identification.

“Sir,” Faro sounded out of breath, “Governor Pryce is alive—her escape pod crashed. We’ve received a transmission—a recorded SOS.”

“How long ago was it sent?”

“Two standard hours.”

“So she was alive _then_ , Commander,” Thrawn corrected, unsure himself why this semantic was important, “but may not be _now_ , correct?” False hope was damning and fruitless.

Silence, then a slight exhale. “Yessir. We are currently tracing the origin.”

“The Governor did not indicate her location?” A bad sign, if so.

“She’s injured, Grand Admiral, and unable to move. She has requested immediate extraction and will be turning on her comm at intervals to check in to conserve its powercell.”

Wise. Thrawn felt a reassuring rush of admiration for the woman whose career had become so entwined with his own.

“Check Firrerre,” he instructed, “as we await her next communication.”

“Firrerre, Grand Admiral?” The alarm that had been buried in his subconscious was clearly articulated in Faro’s question.

“Is there a problem, Commander?”

“No sir, we’re heading in that direction anyway. But Firrerre is under Imperial Quarantine—by order of the Emperor. No one is allowed to set foot on the planet.”

“Is that common knowledge?” Thrawn asked, finger poised over the button to disconnect the call.

“Yes sir, I’m afraid so.”

Faro knew what he was thinking. That was clear. If Pryce was on Firrerre, they weren’t allowed to get her off. For some reason related to contagion, apparently. Thrawn was already inputting the planet’s name into his console, pulling up information to confirm his suspicions.

Emperor Palpatine had unleashed his Starcrash Brigade on the planet at the behest of a Imperial loyalist native. The file was classified at the highest levels, and Thrawn doubted his own crew had enough clearance for the full facts. A Grand Admiral’s, however, was adequate. 

He skimmed the holonews first, to learn the official story. It contradicted reality in only superficial ways—the end result was the same: total planetary genocide. A hive virus released among the populace, the Firrerreos the victims of a plague, according to media reports. The full story was more insidious: the virus _had_ a cure, but not one that was ever communicated to its sufferers.

It was indeed a hive virus, a lethal biological agent, developed by Imperial slavers, that was highly contagious. But its original goal was not annihilation, but propagation. It was more ambitious than typical breeding-incentive toxins, as it affected all genders identically. The purpose was to incentivize the diseased to mate, diminishing the symptoms and simultaneously spreading the virus. It would eventually burn out if partners remained monogamous, weakening—diluting—with each sexual transfer between two infected individuals, but otherwise would spread unchecked through the populace. 

Firrerre was never informed as to the nature of the illness, and their oblivious physicians attempted to treat the afflicted as if it were a more virulent strain of a known hive virus. They never had time or a chance to discover a cure, their inability to consider a breeding variant a death sentence. The critical data identifying similar diseases was lacking—the urge to mate was not prevalent in this strain. Instead, the sick experienced fever and chills similar to the Rodian Flu.

Thrawn devoured the file rapidly, hoping as he read that Pryce had found another planet or moon to smash into. Firrerre would be no easy rescue. A planet of the dead, a plague world manufactured by one of its own misguided citizens. And one Thrawn was forbidden to breach. At least officially.

~~

“Thrawn.” Her voice was weak, weaker than she expected, but there was nothing she could do to disguise the relief and pain that had become more difficult to ignore. With the promise of rescue, her injuries had decided they could once again overtake her senses.

“Governor.” The Chiss’ voice had never sounded so soothing to her ears, even through the fragmented crackle of the speaker. “The _Chimaera_ is near. We are pinpointing your signal now. Please do not turn off your comm. Even if your communicator loses power as a result, the longer we have to trace the frequency the faster we shall be able to come to your assistance.”

“I understand,” she said, forcing back tears that suddenly wanted to come. The urge to completely fall apart was frightening and all-consuming, despite—or perhaps because of—imminent rescue.

“Due to your location, we have been unavoidably delayed. It was necessary to request permission from the Emperor himself to break the quarantine landing restrictions placed upon Firrerre.”

No one had told her where she was—the name of the planet. A new brand of fear struck deep in her empty stomach.

“I’m on Firrerre?”

“Yes, Governor Pryce.”

Her head was spinning—the phrase seemed unusually apt. Pryce knew the stories—the nightmarish plague, the total decimation of the entire population of this world. For all she knew, she had crash-landed straight into a pit full of corpses. A shiver that had nothing to do with the temperature wracked her body, resulting in more intense pain in her useless leg. She sucked in a breath, attempting to concentrate on the information. 

“The Emperor permitted my rescue?” 

The Emperor didn’t know her, and to put a team at risk to save her seemed beyond conceivable, but Thrawn _did_ know Palpatine, and they apparently had an understanding. One that now meant the difference between her life or death.

“Of sorts, Governor. Quarantine shall be required aboard a burn shuttle prior to transport outside the system. And you shall not be allowed on the _Chimaera_.”

A burn shuttle. A ship that was destroyed due to potential infection. Most Star Destroyers didn’t even have them—it was a medical frigate supply. 

“I think,” she bit her lip to keep from screaming as her leg decided now was a good time to remind her of her predicament. “I think I have broken bones.”

“It is likely, yes.” A brief pause as the comm popped and fizzled. The Grand Admiral’s voice disappeared in static. “…other medical contingencies.”

Hearing every little word didn’t seem imperative, and suddenly Pryce felt very very tired. Thrawn was coming—she would be saved. That was more important than anything else. Contemplating dying from the hive virus that destroyed Firrerre wasn’t helpful. So she would be quarantined on a shuttle. At least if she died, she wouldn’t die in the darkness on this forsaken planet.

“Arihnda.”

Her first name on Thrawn’s lips jerked her back to wakefulness. Had she dozed?

“Yes…yes, I’m here.”

She sounded so beaten, Pryce thought disgustedly at the sound of her own voice. So frail. No wonder Thrawn was calling her by her given name like she was a child.

“I must ask you a question, for reasons I cannot go into on an open channel. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” She didn’t though, not really. What was he talking about? What had she missed due to transmission static or sleep?

“Your treatment requires a partner, Arihnda. Is there any among my crew—anyone on the _Chimaera_ , that you prefer to attend you?”

“You mean like a doctor?” She felt like she was dreaming. A _partner_? What was he going on about? And why did he persist on dropping her title?

“I mean like a…friend. Or escort. Someone you are close to, trust, or can confide in. Apart from medical care. You may request anyone.”

The question was preposterous. Of course, Pryce personally knew many of Thrawn’s command crew; she spent a great deal of time on his ship. And she liked most of them well enough, she supposed, but she wasn’t quite sure what Thrawn was getting at. Someone to hold her hand if she died, perhaps? What else could he mean by these questions? “Attend” her…

Pryce coughed, struggling not to cry out at the pain the erratic spasm caused in her limbs. Maybe she was already doomed, and Thrawn’s query was a courtesy to a living dead woman—asking who should hear her last wishes, perhaps, or accompany her when the emdee droid administered its government-mandated euthanasia. Closing her eyes, feeling tears sting her eyelids, she tried to formulate a response. Her parents—would they even hear what happened to her? The truth? What would be the ‘official’ story of the assassination of Governor Arihnda Pryce?

“Governor.”

The return to her title brought her back to herself. The Grand Admiral sounded almost inappropriately calm, but she welcomed his stoicism in the face of her own creeping hysteria. She wasn’t dead yet, hadn’t she just had that thought not long ago? Against the odds she was talking to Thrawn, one of her most powerful allies, and he _was_ going to rescue her. His words, his presence, were always fortifying. And most needed now, in what was quite literally her darkest hour.

“Thank you, Grand Admiral.” The words began as a whisper and gradually strengthened. “If I understand correctly,” she continued, voice only cracking once, “I would prefer that _you_ …” Pryce paused, searching for an all-purpose word that would cover life, death, any number of humiliating circumstances along the path that awaited, “…accompany me.”

There was silence on the comm, and for a moment Pryce thought Thrawn hadn’t heard.

“If it is not too inconvenient,” she added. How long would it require, for him to witness her death? To hear her final thoughts? Not too long, she hoped, wanting to laugh at the politeness of her morbid request.

“Of course Governor. I guarantee you my personal attention.”

“Thank you, Grand Admiral.”

Pryce vaguely registered Thrawn making his excuses, saying he had much to prepare, and then his executive officer Karyn Faro took over the comm. The woman tried to explain the next steps, but Pryce couldn’t think, her mind lodged firmly on the precipice of panic, and finally she had to press 'mute' on the comm to scream a release, hoping the function hadn’t been damaged.

“We’re almost there, Governor Pryce," she finally heard Faro say shortly thereafter. "Your location has been confirmed.”


	2. Attachment

The Lambda alit one hundred meters from a jagged crater formed by the escape pod’s impact. Its sensory landing gear was down. There must have been a malfunction of repulsors to account for the collapsed external wall, Thrawn assessed. One half of the vessel was intact, no doubt the only reason Pryce had survived the descent. Shaking off the thought of hypothetical disasters, Thrawn breathed through his biosuit mask once, twice, testing the filtered air, then directed the two droids to follow as he darted down the shuttle ramp straight towards the wreckage.

The terrain was rocky and uneven, but Thrawn cleared the distance in seconds, stepping hurriedly between jagged debris to enter the pod. The biosuit’s lights and his attached glowrod were more than adequate to illuminate the interior.

Pryce’s body was splayed not far from the compromised hull, which had folded like a ribbon of metal onto her right leg. Her thin arms were crossed tightly across her chest, a defense against the atmosphere’s chill, perhaps, and her uniform was torn in several places. Bruises, cuts, and scrapes peppered the considerable exposed skin. Thrawn was at her side instantly, a tightly-held bioscanner checking vitals. 

He had hoped if they rushed, Pryce might have escaped infection. That seemed a naïve dream now, as the planet’s polluted winds whipped through the escape pod’s crippled shell like a howling taunt.

Her pulse was steady but faint. The scanner indicated one partially collapsed lung, severe dehydration, and, as predicted, a broken leg. Two additional major fractures in her ankle, four minor in the foot, and the presence of unknown pathogens. An alert flashed and beeped a warning on the screen: _DIAGNOSTIC QUARANTINE HIGHLY RECOMMENDED._

Passing the device to the emdee unit, Thrawn directed the KO-5D labor droid to begin freeing Pryce’s leg. 

“Can you revive her?” he asked the emdee, watching it inject a long needle into Pryce’s blood-spattered neck.

“Not recommended, sir,” the droid replied. “It will be more comfortable for the patient to sustain this unconscious state for the administration of primary emergency care. After bacta, rehydration, and determination of whether or not amputation is required—depending on the extent of infection—we can stim her awake.”

The latency period for the virus was less than twelve hours. Pryce didn’t have the luxury of leisurely recovery. Thrawn made a quick mental calculation, closing his eyes briefly as he did so.

“Do what you can in the next two hours,” Thrawn instructed, “then she must be conscious. Bacta will wait—use patches to minimize scarring in the interim. Provide analgesics, but not enough to compromise mental faculties, standard biological functions, or reflexes.”

“But sir, my programming clearly stipulates—”

“You have two standard hours,” Thrawn said firmly, then straightened as the K0-5D’s propulsion saw sliced through the steel pinning Pryce to the floor. The emdee droid lifted her carefully onto a hover-stretcher. With a final sweep of his glowrod, Thrawn noticed something sparkling in the corner. He scooped up a thin chain that looked like it had broken in the accident—a necklace he didn’t recognize—and followed the droids back to the Lambda.

~~

The lights were on a very low setting, but her eyes hurt nonetheless. Pryce rapidly closed her sticky lids against the illumination, then forced them into slits. It was dark…but not the merciless pitch of her metal prison.

Thrawn was here. She registered the glow of his gaze before his angular silhouette resolved in her vision. He wore a surgical mask—his eyes narrowing as she tried to move. It seemed an impossible task to lift a finger, to shift her neck to the side. 

_Drugs…I’ve been drugged._ The thought was thick with relief. Thrawn was _here_. She was rescued.

“Please do not attempt to move, Governor.”

His familiar, silken tone was even better when not filtered through a staticky comm, and Pryce managed a weak smile.

“No problem. I think I’ll take a break from the dojo for a while.” Her voice was raspy, but clear. She was very thirsty.

Thrawn did not smile back, everything about him exuding tension. So bad news, then. She had the plague. It had been inevitable, really. The totality of her misfortune crashed into reality, and Pryce nodded once in weary acceptance. Cheating violent death repeatedly, only to lose to slow, creeping disease in the final round—she wasn’t surprised. The galaxy was cruel.

“How long do I have?”

The Grand Admiral didn’t reply immediately, although she was certain he had heard. Surely he wasn’t going to lie, offer false optimism or empty platitudes.

“How _long_? I have the virus, right? That’s why you’re wearing that mask, why we’re on the burn shuttle?” Saying it out loud made his presence all the more unlikely. Pryce felt her composure begin to unravel. “And why are you here anyway? If I’m dying, you’re putting yourself at risk! You can’t…you shouldn’t have…”

She trailed off. It was too late. She remembered now. It was _her_ fault he was here. Thrawn had asked who she wanted to accompany her in her final hours, hadn’t he? An escort, he’d said. A partner. Quite the euphemism… And she had asked for _him_ , like a selfish child, uncaring of the potential for contagion or well-being of his crew.

Embarrassment, heavy and rich, overtook fear as her primary emotion. “I’m sorry,” she grated out, knowing it was inadequate and wondering at his ready agreement to her unthinking request. Noble, to not refuse a dying woman, she supposed, but Thrawn seemed more practical than this…

“You are not going to die, Governor Pryce.”

She instantly believed him, stars help her, she did. She was afraid to, to allow herself even a sliver of hope after everything that she’d suffered, but his words were firm, certain. It was a pronouncement that dared defiance. 

Looking for confirmation, Pryce turned her attention to her own body. Her legs no longer hurt, the right sheathed from toe to thigh in a rapid-heal plasticast. Her left arm was strapped to the bed, an auto-IV inserted into her wrist. Bandages everywhere. She could feel the cool wetness of bacta patches against her skin, and the fuzzy awareness that meant good painkillers. The verdict was that she certainly wasn’t in great shape, but had not been triaged as if her case were hopeless.

“But the virus…”

Thrawn muttered something under his breath, a foreign word, and it bothered her, despite the very recent revelation that she looked set to survive the ordeal. Her chest constricted. The Grand Admiral no doubt had better things to do than tend to her, especially if his assurances were true.

Instead of addressing her immediately, Thrawn turned to an emdee droid, which she hadn’t noticed, and dismissed it before continuing. 

“It is not yet certain you have contracted the virus, Governor, although the test protocols, when ready, are likely to confirm it. In any event, we must proceed as if you have tested positive.”

“Proceed?”

“Treatment.”

He sounded strange, less confident than a moment ago. The drugs may have made her foggy, but Thrawn’s words made no sense. She sat straighter on the cot, eyes narrowing.

“There’s no cure—no _treatment_ for Firrerrean Plague. Don’t coddle me!”

A datapad appeared from somewhere behind Thrawn, placed into her fingers. Pryce blinked, struggling to focus on the screen. It seemed impossibly bright after the protracted darkness, even on the dimmest setting.

“What’s this?” Her voice sounded better—annoyed, yes, but more like herself. Pryce tried not to contemplate as to why irritation was closer to her natural state, looking up to meet Thrawn’s indecipherable expression.

“The Empire’s classified report on the Firrerrean hive virus. You will read it.” Thrawn stood up. “I shall return in a few minutes to discuss.”

Pryce cocked her head at that. She hadn’t expected a quiz, or whatever he intended her to glean from this. Surely reports could wait.

“I don’t feel like reading right now,” she tried to hand it back to him. “It hurts my eyes.”

Thrawn ignored the outstretched datapad, his face implacable. “Read it, nonetheless. I will be back soon.”

Without waiting for a response, he left, heavy synthplast sheeting dropping back to the floor in his wake. For the first time, Pryce realized she was in a makeshift isolation chamber. Of course, there must be other crew aboard the ship, mustn’t there? Important to protect them…

She glanced at the small rectangle with distaste, briefly entertaining the idea of disregarding it—forcing Thrawn to tell her what was so dire that he couldn’t bear to deliver the news himself. But ultimately, after a few minutes of obstinate internal debate, curiosity got the better of her, and she started to read.

~~

Thrawn paced the cramped cargo hold, mind uncharacteristically blank. The third pass of the space, he detoured to the cockpit, checking the ship’s trajectory. They were on the way to Lothal, traveling the so-called ‘scenic route.’ Thrawn had precisely calculated the nav coordinates himself. Exactly a fourteen-day voyage—the mandated quarantine time from exposure to total elimination of the virus. He had advised Faro he would rendezvous with the _Chimaera_ in sixteen days’ time, allowing an extra cycle to settle Pryce back on her homeworld.

His XO had not understood the details of the situation, and Thrawn had not volunteered them. He had only explained the approved terms of rescue, which stipulated one crew member, and only one, be permitted to extract and “cure” the Governor. Maximum quarantine duration would be imposed, during which no docking privileges could be granted, and the Governor would face an additional galactic fortnight of isolation for a full recovery prior to resuming her official duties. 

Faro, in her discretion, had only inquired as to whether or not the treatment was proven, and accepted her admiral’s assurance that he would be successful. If she was shocked at his self-appointment to the mission, she hid it well. Thrawn was proud of her.

A sacrificial shuttle was selected among those in the ISD’s cold storage, outfitted with a complete medical complement. Thrawn insisted the most advanced shipboard emdee droid be reassigned to accompany. Both the medical and labor/nav droids, unfortunately, would also be burned with the shuttle upon completion of the trip. But mechanicals were expendable, more replaceable than sentient assets.

Pryce. His thoughts kept returning to the Governor. 

Thrawn was unwilling to consider _her_ disposable, despite both strategy and logic dictating this mission a waste of time and resources, not to mention a foolish and unnecessary risk to himself. Much was at stake. His own death would compound the Imperial losses resulting from the _Nosoi’s_ destruction, and more importantly, jeopardize his people’s future. Yet Pryce was indispensable, for reasons the Grand Admiral wasn’t willing to examine at the moment. Enough that he recognized the fact.

And Pryce had chosen _him_. Thrawn knew she had done so blindly, unaware of what she was asking, but took solace in the knowledge that whatever Pryce had believed his role to be, she wished for him to be a part of her survival, or death, above all others.

It had been nine standard minutes. Enough time, he decided, for the Governor’s absorption of the facts. Stiffening his shoulders, Thrawn caught his reflection in the cockpit chrome. The mask. Now that she knew the truth, it was superfluous. Thrawn unhooked the loops from his ears and tossed it away, returning to the bespoke medical bay.

Pryce was staring at the glowing datapad, fingers gripping the sides tightly. Taking a seat on the plastisteel stool at her bedside, Thrawn waited. After a few moments, she looked up, blue eyes icy, determined.

_Carotid pulse throbbing, skin flushed, jaw set._

“It reads like a joke.” Her voice was flat.

Thrawn smiled thinly. “I assure you, it is not a joke.”

“I know,” Pryce waved a dismissive hand, wincing as the movement jerked the auto-IV in her arm. “But if anyone but you…” Trailing off, she glanced back down at the datapad, then switched off the screen. “I’ve heard about love wallop pills and manufactured drugs for slavers, but…a _virus_?” Her voice turned incredulous. “And they just let it _kill_ everyone when…all they had to do was…”

She trailed off again.

“Was breed. Or attempt to,” Thrawn finished for her. Pryce had connected the dots. Time was already growing late, and it would be easier if she was accepting of the necessary way forward. Preparing for every contingency, Thrawn had contemplated the alternative—that she would refuse to be cured—but calculated the probability of such a suicidal response from Governor Pryce to be infinitesimal. She was a warrior at heart.

_Mouth twists, nostrils flare. Fingers spread and contract, once, twice. Eyes lowered._

It was evident there was some silent struggle he was witnessing, and Thrawn found himself oddly uncertain how to proceed. Any illusion of choice was a mere formality, surely she must realize. He crossed his arms, fingers resting on his sleeves, shifting, restless.

Pryce took a deep breath, the exhale abbreviated by a sharp cough. When she looked up, her gaze was steady, meeting his questioning look with glacial resolve.

“If I had known—”

Thrawn interrupted without knowing what he intended to say. Insult already bloomed in his chest. His arms fell to his sides, and he stood at attention, discipline a reliable refuge.

“There was no way to explain classified details over an open channel, Governor. I understand your…” Words failed him, and Thrawn’s brain sifted through several options— _reluctance_ , _predicament_ , _concern_ —before he spoke the one that perhaps was least appropriate to maintain the distance and authority he’d been seeking. 

“…Disappointment.”

The noun appeared to stun her. Pryce’s jaw slackened as she gaped at him. Thrawn mentally cursed. A poor, unfortunately revealing choice of words on his part, and too late to recover from the error. A possibility he hadn’t considered, and now he couldn’t predict or prepare for her response. 

A bitter laugh left her lips. 

Thrawn barely arched an eyebrow in response. Perhaps the Governor would go into hysterics.

_Blue eyes clouded, respiration uneven, lines appearing on her forehead. Temperature climbing._

“Disappointment?” Pryce repeated then, enunciating like an interpreter seeking confirmation. 

Somehow they’d become locked in a warped staring contest, despite her condition. Her eyes hardened and pupils dilated, softened quickly, shrinking, then dimmed again, lids heavy. Perhaps a result of medication. Thrawn forced himself not to react; he didn’t wish to complicate the situation beyond what he’d already exposed with his ill-advised word choice. Of course, it was a stressful situation, but he would have to be more careful. “Disappointment” obviously made no sense to her, and unused various alternatives battered at his brain, chastising him for the amateur lapse in vocabulary.

Another hoarse laugh from the bed, which dissolved into a coughing fit. Thrawn handed over a water bulb, a mute witness as Pryce gulped it down, then proceeded to cough even more violently.

They didn’t have time for this. He debated his strategic silence. Originally, the idea had been to allow Pryce to lead the conversation, broach the obvious issue of “treatment”, but Thrawn started to reconsider tactics in the face of her tussive spasms.

Finally, she calmed, chest still heaving with the effort of breath. The emdee unit arrived, monitors alerting him of her distress. It checked her vitals, shook its head, and bustled out. Thrawn cleared his throat, hoping the interruption would allow them to move on.

“Grand Admiral—may I ask you a rather blunt question?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you.” Pryce coughed again, a more liquid sound than before. “Am I understanding correctly that you are here because, in my ignorance of the facts, I unwittingly condemned you to share my fate?”

Anger, scorching and impulsive, surged beneath his skin. Thrawn’s nerves had already been on edge, muscles tensed. Her reaction bothered him more than it should, there was no denying it, although Thrawn did his best to keep his response hidden. He already had provided the reason for his lack of candor on the open comm. Her emphasis on “ignorance” and not being fully informed implied more than just dismay at her infection—it suggested dissatisfaction with her selection of companion. Pride had no place here, really, but—

He decided not to dissemble for the sake of politesse. “That is one way to put it, Governor.”

She gestured impatiently, wincing again as the IV tubing resisted the movement. “Arihnda is fine.”

“If you had named another member of my crew, I assure you—”

She cut him off, a bizarre mix of irritation and humor tinging her words. “What?! You would have ordered them to fuck me? To save my life?”

“Yes.” There was no hesitation in his response, but Thrawn prevaricated. “If an order had been necessary.” 

He couldn’t imagine whom she would have preferred, his brain unhelpfully sorting through scores of human males aboard the _Chimaera_ that Pryce may have found preferable to himself as a sexual partner. He felt fairly certain that whomever she selected would not have required coercion. Pryce was attractive by human standards, and of course the idea of having a powerful politician in one’s debt would be a path to promotion or future favors for anyone savvy enough to realize it. Beyond these facts, Thrawn expected his crew to obey orders without question.

A snort was her reply to that. “Oh, that would have worked well.” 

_Shoulders relaxing, back slumping, eyes dulled._

Pryce settled against the medbay cot’s raised cushion, avoiding his eyes. Thrawn took a step backwards, folding his arms. He was annoyed at his own lack of foresight. He had failed to consider this…offense. The annoyance he’d been holding at bay reasserted itself, and Thrawn scowled, quickly controlling the expression. Probably too late. Pryce was observant.

“Apologies, Arihnda, if you disagree with my methods. However, at this late stage, I refuse to expose additional _Chimaera_ personnel to the virus, regardless of your hesitation or personal disapproval of my role.”

_Mouth hanging open, snapped shut. Eyebrows drawing close, downwards. Lips tightly pressed, frowning._

“Additional?” she asked, the question more to herself than him. He waited, seeing the answer dawn on her face. “Oh. You’re exposed.”

“Undoubtedly.”

Silence. A pointless standoff.

“If I hadn’t been able to choose,” she started, then stopped, biting her lip, seeming to debate the question, then plowed recklessly forward. “…Would you have picked for me?”

It was hard to discern her motivation with such a line of inquiry, but before Thrawn could consider her reasons in depth, she backtracked.

“Forget it, I’m just trying to…” Then, as if only now registering his earlier words, she held out her untethered, bruised hand, beckoning. Cautiously, Thrawn stepped closer to her bedside.

Abruptly, Pryce seized his fingers. Her strength, sourced in desperation or drugs, almost crushing.

“Are you sure it will work?”

Thrawn nodded once, holding her gaze, feeling his annoyance fragment, dissolve into relief at her apparent acceptance.

“The report appendix indicates from three separate trials that alien/human copulation satisfies the biological mandate, so long as the species involved are capable of producing hybrids. The only unknown is the length of time between dual contagion and elimination. That can be variable across races and species, but no timeline of more than fourteen standard rotations has been recorded.” He took a breath. “However, as far as I am aware, a Chiss has never before been infected.”

A grimace twisted her features, but Thrawn didn’t know if it was a reaction to his words or pain from her injuries.

“So I give it to you—and you give it back to me—until it’s gone.”

“Yes.”

“You would do this? You’re offering to…to…”

Her voice broke, but this time Thrawn was better prepared, having expected such a query.

“It is not that _I_ do this,” he answered simply. “ _We_ do this, _together_ , or we both die.”

“But you said I may not even _be_ infected.” The words, plaintive, hung there in the air, and then, as if on cue, Pryce coughed again. Thrawn managed not to flinch, the sound harsh and foreboding to his ears. Her fingers squeezed so tight he could feel her bones.

“The test being prepared _will_ confirm it, Arihnda. You already display symptoms.” This was another contingency he had prepared for—denial, and felt more at ease with the topic. “Consider,” he spoke evenly, “if you do have the virus, we are running out of time.”

He didn’t complete the second half of the argument. If she did not—although he was certain she did—the worst that could happen was an awkward alteration of their working relationship, recoverable post-coital regret, the loss of an ally due to an abundance of caution.

No answer, no argument from the woman in the bed. Thrawn stayed silent, counting slowly in his head. Of course she needed to process the information, but now that the facts were known, every minute was wasted, a dangerous, silent countdown taking place in her bloodstream.

_Biting lip, fingers loosening in his…_

“We _could_ …” Pryce’s voice seemed to have collapsed upon itself, hollow and unconvincing.

Thrawn glanced down at their joined fingers to resist the urge to continue the discussion. Sometimes wordless communication was best. And Pryce was processing. She had already figured it out, he knew. Decided to live the moment she had understood death was not inevitable, whatever the terms of survival. 

Rich blue laced in bloodless ivory. Fine capillaries beneath her pale skin, as blue as the surface of his. Thrawn tensed his hand experimentally, feeling the throb of her pulse respond. An answering squeeze brought his eyes back to her face. 

“Very well.” She laughed again, a short barking sound with no humor in it. “I apologize, Grand Admiral, for our mutual predicament.”

“No apology necessary.” He managed a faint smile. “And given the circumstances, perhaps you might call me Thrawn.”

A faint blush colored her cheeks as she released his fingers and handed him the datapad. Thrawn set it to the side.

“Thrawn…” It was soft, testing on her tongue. Pryce sat up straighter, then winced. “How…with the…” She looked pointedly down at the cast on her leg and tubes in her arm. 

He had already considered the logistics, given her limitations.

“Carefully,” he responded. 

Standing up, Thrawn moved to the head of the cot, checking the monitors and tubes, evaluating her position. He slid the small utility tray away from the bedside, resting a hand briefly on Pryce’s forearm as he began taking off his boots.

“I’ve never felt less horny in my life,” she said, as he set them to the side. Then, apparently realizing the potential for insult, stammered. “I mean—”

“I understand,” Thrawn replied, removing his uniform belt, glancing at her.

_Rapid blinking, lips pulled deep into the corners of her mouth, pulse accelerating, feverish._

“Are we alone? I mean…no door?”

“We two are the only sentients aboard the transport. There is a labor droid doubling as a navigator, and the emdee unit you have already encountered.” He began to unfasten his tunic, then, thinking better of it, Thrawn’s hands fell to the side, leaving it hanging half-open. “It was a condition of your rescue, that only one crew member be compromised.”

“Do they all know, on the _Chimaera_ —”

“No.” He cut her off, looking away at the medbay monitors and ignoring the twist in his chest. “Imperial files on the Firrerean hive virus are classified at the highest levels. The transmission functions on the droids have been disabled and they will be burned with the shuttle.” 

The thermograph indicated Pryce’s body temperature had skyrocketed in the last minute. Not a good omen, as, true to her word, he didn’t see any obvious signs of arousal that could explain it. The virus was announcing its presence. 

“Thrawn…” 


	3. Penetration

The uncertainty, the misery in her voice was appalling. She had to stay sharp and fight the sluggish murk enveloping her, slowing her reflexes.

Pryce was a practical person. The initial shock of the report lingered, but she had grasped the situation without needing it to be spelled out. Convoluted terminology, euphemisms and the bureaucratic language of the Empire’s sickest scientific minds couldn’t sugarcoat the truth. Fuck someone—repeatedly—to survive. It was the only treatment. It was a medical necessity, best approached with detachment.

So what if the man opposite had not infrequently figured in her nighttime fantasies? It was as insignificant a fact as the distance between Coruscant’s moons. Thrawn was willing to help—to save her life—despite clearly not harboring the same hopes or dreams she’d buried for years in his presence. No wonder he expected her to be “disappointed” with their lot; she didn’t want to consider how he had come to terms with what needed to be done.

This warped reality was sour, mocking. Pryce rolled her teeth between her lips, pushing doubts away. Thrawn was here. He had known the consequences, and agreed regardless. That was enough, really, to stomach what came next. It meant he didn’t find her unfuckable, at least. And as he had so bloodlessly admitted, he could have assigned Creb or Vanto to the job.

That was an even worse pathway for her virus-addled brain to meander. Pryce set her jaw, avoiding Thrawn’s eyes. Her neck tensed, the clash of teeth making her wince, but it also helped keep the lure of sleep at bay. 

The best defense was a good offense. Pryce vowed she wouldn’t be pitied or coddled. It was a mercy fuck, but she would handle it with as much dignity as Thrawn permitted. He seemed willing to grant her that, and she hadn’t risen to her position through false humility or wallowing in self-pity.

Clearing her throat, Pryce kicked with the leaden muscles of her free leg at the rumpled covers. She would limp to the sonic and clean up before subjecting Thrawn to her undoubtedly soiled and smelly self.

“I understand time is a concern, but could you assist me to the refresher Gr—Thrawn?”

“Of course.”

With nimble fingers, Thrawn unstrapped her arm from the side of the cot, unhooking the tubing from the hypo that remained embedded in her hand. Folding at the waist, he offered support, and Pryce unsteadily braced her weight against a crisp uniform sleeve. She moved as if the subject of slo-mo holosport analysis to slide her legs over the side of the bunk. Every movement hurt, every limb alternating between pointed agony and dull, stubborn refusal to respond to her mental wishes. 

The Grand Admiral had his own plan, however. Looping one arm under her back, the other beneath her knees, Thrawn gently lifted her against his chest. Too surprised to prepare an appropriate reaction, Pryce found herself leaning into his strength, the solidness of him. The urge to press even deeper, to succumb to whatever security or oblivion those muscles could provide, was powerful.

“Keep your left hand on my arm.”

Feeling groggy at the directive, she forced her head away from a welcoming shoulder and grasped with clumsy fingers at Thrawn’s bicep. Once she had a hold of him, preventing the appliance embedded in her skin from getting caught on anything, Thrawn took a slow step, like walking through waist-deep water. They crossed the deck to a wide portal. Sheeted contamination barriers had been pinned back on either side. Thrawn turned and elbowed the panel to open it, just as the emdee came sputtering protests into the cabin, alerted by the monitor that his patient had been disconnected.

Thrawn dismissed the unit with a clipped command, stepping across the threshold. Pryce labored to focus, wanting nothing more than to just let him carry her anywhere. Their destination had been forgotten, and with a chill of fear she realized the fog in her head was another symptom of infection.

“Shall I?”

She didn’t know what he was asking, but mumbled an assent. 

Her legs didn’t feel connected as Thrawn set her on an oversized chair. Without his torso and arms as braces, her head didn’t want to remain upright, neck bending to the left, ear to shoulder, as Pryce battled to stay awake.

“Arihnda.” 

A small tap to her temple. She shook her head. Sleep could fix this. Better if Thrawn just held her again—the seat of the chair was ill-fitting, abrasive. She wanted to _sleep_ , but there was a reason not to, she failed to recall exactly. The distant sound of running water was reminiscent of _something_ , but the memory was just out of reach, not important right now.

Another tap, a touch, somewhere…far away. She heard Thrawn’s voice through a mist, not understanding his words, and then a sharp jolt, a pain in her neck as the world swam into focus again.

“A stim shot, Arihnda. It should last for at least fifteen minutes. Can you hear me?”

She _could_ hear him, but things were still liquid, blurry. Raising her arm, Pryce tried to touch, to find him. A strong hand closed around hers and she sighed.

“Administer another.”

“Sir, the patient requires rest. With the removal of the drip, I have no way to alleviate the strain on her heart or lungs.”

“Half the dosage then.”

The prick of the injector was stronger this time, and Pryce gasped, sitting up like she’d been shocked by an IT-O’s nerve probe.

Thrawn was there, now crisply in focus, a contrast to how every other sense felt slow and muddy.

“Thrawn. How long…” She was still alive, so that was something. “Did we…? I mean, did you…?”

He moved closer, a glimpse of teeth, pale lips so near, hot breath striking her cheek. This wasn’t a nightmare, everything was concrete, too real. Pryce let her eyes fall shut once more, a futile stalling tactic. She couldn’t forget the situation…they had to have sex or she would already be dead. Did he—when she was unconscious…

“No, Arihnda.” His voice was low, at her ear. “But we must act quickly.” 

Pryce exhaled, her body shaking, trembling for no reason she could determine. Cautiously, she cracked her eyes back open, resigned to wakefulness. What had happened? He had taken her to the refresher, but she was no longer there. Lying down once more. In a bed. Not the medical cot, a real bed. Perhaps the captain’s quarters.

“I passed out?”

The blue face left her line of sight as Thrawn stood, not answering. Angling her chin in his general direction, she sought to follow his movements. He was undressing, the half-open tunic rapidly discarded. A rustle of fabric, the thud of something solid—his belt? A blaster?—hitting the floor. 

Her eyes widened, heart beating faster. They were actually going to do this…somehow it had seemed like a dream, a hypothetical. The stupor of illness had permitted that fantasy to persist. But the very real body of the man here with her no longer allowed for any level of self-delusion.

Swallowing, Pryce dug a fingernail into the bandage on the back of her hand where the auto-IV had been. The resulting pain further honed her awareness, touch as well as sight now emerging from the viral haze. She cleared her throat as Thrawn sat on the edge of the bed, his eyes piercing, evaluating.

Medical…scientifically proven treatment. She could match his practical approach, she had to, or else die of humiliation along with the plague. Pryce stared dumbly at the muscled chest before her, fighting to keep her gaze from dropping lower than his sternum.

“Perhaps there is a better… position than this." Her voice was firm, belying the dizziness she felt everywhere else. One open hand gestured to indicate her legs, stretched awkwardly along the bed. 

Yet Thrawn’s reaction was not what she had anticipated. He cocked an eyebrow, then scanned her body as if assessing the suitability of her proposal. Involuntarily, she shifted beneath his scrutiny, an ill-timed tingle of nerves accompanying the movement.

“It is inadvisable to attempt to stand or support yourself, as the cast, while accelerating healing, requires another sixteen hours for a complete recovery from the fractured bones. Also,” his eyes narrowed, as if he found nothing to approve about the sight before him, “you are currently only avoiding unconsciousness due to stim shots.” 

His tone was entirely appropriate, Pryce told herself, a strange pain in her stomach. After all, this was a clinical act, nothing personal about it. She nodded as if he had commented on the weather.

“I see. Then perhaps I should turn over.”

“Turn over?” Thrawn didn’t seem to get her meaning, lips pursed in apparent disgust.

Annoyance threatened to overtake embarrassment, a welcome development, to Pryce’s mind. Why did she find irritation so fortifying? And how could he be so dense?

“Yes. For…” Why had she continued the sentence? What in the world could she call what they were about to do? “For the intercourse,” she finished, cringing internally as the noun left her throat.

Thrawn’s mouth flattened into an even thinner line, and she wondered at it. He certainly didn’t look pleased with her suggestion. She was trying to make it easy on him, on them both. Couldn’t his strange eyes see at least that much? 

Preparing herself, back pressing deep into the pillow behind her, Pryce awaited criticism, refusal, or assent. She couldn’t begin to predict his wishes, not from that strange look on his face.

But Thrawn said nothing. Instead, his hand stretched out, long blue fingers covering hers, pressing them flat against the institutional mattress. His eyes didn’t leave her, trapping hers, preventing her from looking down at his touch. The pads of each calloused finger, each joint, pushed down against her skin, heated and strong. Pryce fisted her hand beneath his, cursing her own reflex. Of course this would be the furthest thing from romantic, but his skin felt nice, his touch both alien and comforting despite the convoluted mire of emotions struggling to surface.

Thrawn’s hand closed around her fist, the tips of his fingers insistent and gentle as he pressed them between her knuckles. Pryce sucked in a breath, holding it, sensing she was about to lose a battle with her own fractious ego and entirely helpless against it.

“I recognize there is a coercive element to this, Arihnda, and it is my intention to minimize that violation however possible.”

His fingers left her, the loss travelling like a chill up her wrist. Pryce opened her mouth to speak, not even certain how to respond. She only knew arguing, protesting, would give her some sense of power. But Thrawn continued, his voice low and hardened, more forceful now. “Likewise, I have no desire to act the rapist.”

Suddenly his touch was back, and Pryce’s eyes followed this time. Thrawn’s cobalt fingernails climbed slowly from her wrist up her forearm, a soothing, firm pressure, then back down. The rhythm was slow, steady, and hypnotic.

“Do you understand?”

Pryce blinked, replaying his words, and _thought_ she did, fruitless anger now subdued but irritation ever-present. He couldn’t possibly mean for them to _enjoy_ it? Not under these circumstances…no matter how much she had once thought she wanted him.

Thrawn’s warm hand glided back down her forearm. Unthinking, she opened her fist and he threaded their fingers together.

“Do you understand?” he repeated, tone unchanged. Her response was required.

“Yes.” She tensed at the fragile, sickening syllable, sounding like a weak woman dependent on the indulgence of others for survival and comfort. “I understand,” Pryce added then, perjuring herself before a nonexistent judge.

She looked up from their hands, where he held her still, full of questions. Thrawn, however, had decided no more terms needed to be discussed. Releasing her fingers, he stripped the rest of the way, without apparent self-consciousness or reluctance. His body was as magnificent as she had always dreamed, Pryce cursed, closing her eyes in frustration. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It was supposed to be like in her imaginings—stolen kisses in his office, or hers, swept into dark alcoves between speeches at an Imperial gala, a midnight tryst during Corellian New Year. Instead, she was going to be fucked out of charity, an invalid, unable to contribute. This wasn’t what she wanted. What either of them deserved.

Thrawn moved soundlessly, a silent predator she barely tracked. A pillow was placed beneath her hips, then he was lying next to her on the bed, skin against skin. The mass of him, the nakedness that should have made him as vulnerable as she, only emphasized his health, his power. 

_I’m glad I picked you,_ she told the stormy space in her head. Of course Thrawn couldn’t hear, and of course he wouldn’t care, she knew. Debating as to whether or not she should say it aloud, confess her pointless desires—after all they could both die, Pryce never had the opportunity to decide. Thrawn’s face was closer than it had ever been, his hand once again finding hers, a rough thumb tracing the bandage border. She could see the pores in his skin, the unusual smoothness of his lips, the details and subtle amber highlights in his eyes that blended together into crimson from a distance. One hand hovered next to her brow, not touching, just…waiting.

“Do it,” she whispered, abandoning any thoughts of confession. Having no control over the inevitable, at least they could proceed with the semblance of consent. 

Pryce wondered if she looked as awful as she felt—pale, injured, bruised and bandaged. Damn him for coming. Damn him for being so handsome, smart, and self-sacrificing that he left behind his command, his ship, his crew, to save her. Damn the hope that resulted, the nauseating blossom of emotion she couldn’t stifle or comprehend in her chest that kept her from entirely disassociating from this moment, that made her breath hitch and her lean into his touch as he cupped her cheek with his other hand.

Then, in one smoothly-choreographed movement, Thrawn pressed his mouth to hers.

It was hard to think, her first reaction an urge to retreat, withdraw from his lips, even as her eyes closed reflexively. Her breath had to be revolting. And although she’d been bathed at some point, aches and pains from her ordeal sullied her entire body, making it unfit for anything but sleep and convalescence. Yet a confident hand slid to the back of her head, dividing her attention and delaying the odd, exciting and poorly-timed realization that Grand Admiral Thrawn was kissing her.

 _Of course_ , the logical side of her brain said— _and soon he’s going to be fucking you. Get used to it._ But kisses were not part of the deal, were they? Or was that what she had blindly agreed to, what he’d subtly mandated to mist the reality of the ugly facts?

His hand in hers squeezed, his lips pushed harder, rejecting her hesitation, opening her mouth as if searching for a cure within. Panic rose in Pryce’s throat, and her heart seized in her chest. His kiss was consuming, threatening. Could he want her? The question dissolved under his tongue, perhaps the goal. How could it feel so natural for something so completely forced?

Thrawn didn’t give her time to ask or complain, his hands already moving on to other things. She felt weaker than ever, melted and boneless—not in a swoony, overcome with passion sense, but with a terrifying, paralyzed awareness of her own infirmity. The medcenter robe parted at his fingers’ descent, one hand on her thigh tickling oversensitive, bruised skin. Gasping into his mouth, Pryce jerked to do something—she wasn’t sure what—with her own hands, but the cast on her leg bumped into the other with a painful reminder of her condition.

She expected a pause—a reaction, a check-in to see if she was comfortable or ready. Instead, Thrawn’s fingers moved unerringly to the delta between her legs, a proton torpedo drawn to its mark. She shook at his first stroke, her breath coming harder at the second, fifth, tenth, and was still shivering when he pushed inside her—knuckle deep, then further. 

Their lips parted, but only for a second, then Thrawn was renewing their kiss, his tongue distracting as his palm flattened against her. Her brain, already overloaded with stress, exhausted by the need to process recent events, surrendered the fight for distance at the same moment her body did. 

Pryce spread her legs; her head fell back on the pillow. Thrawn’s lips found hers again as she moaned. Her robe opened, exposing her contusions and cuts. Scattered bacta patches on her flesh seemed futile remnants of modesty. A harder pressure between her legs as he added a finger, then his thin mouth quit hers, tracing the line of her jaw up to her earlobe. He nipped, tongue lapping after each tiny bite, almost in time with the push of his hand against her clit. 

Then those long fingers left her and Pryce whimpered; she hurt, everywhere, with no way to discern what was damage and what was desire. Strong hands lifted, lowered, and Pryce, overwhelmed, managed to open her eyes. The grey slate surface of the ship’s ceiling met her gaze. She was still groggy, aching, hips shifting and twisting in search of more. Where was Thrawn? Why had he left her side?

The answer was not long in coming. The Grand Admiral swung so easily atop her it seemed shipboard gravity had malfunctioned. His glowing eyes glanced down between their bodies, legs settling carefully between hers, not touching her cast, and then he pressed up, faces level.

Confronting that fiery gaze, the superficial lust he had stoked was stained with apprehension. Pryce squeezed her eyes shut, heart pounding. She hadn’t even seen what Thrawn’s cock looked like—what if it wasn’t…normal.

“Arihnda.”

Thrawn’s voice was soft, centering, and heavy with shortened breath. He didn’t sound like a man undertaking a distasteful duty. Nor did he seem impatient or annoyed.

 _This is a dream,_ she decided, letting her eyes be drawn to his, unconsciously arching into his chest as Thrawn dropped his head over hers. Their lips were so aligned, so close, neither could speak without brushing the other’s mouth.

 _“I would have picked you anyway.”_

There, she’d said it. Or had she? Was it only in her head? Pryce’s lips felt puffy, her brain throbbing. Yes, this was a fever dream before death, more likely than the alternative. The reassuring weight atop her, the feeling of alien skin—smooth and thick and rough and soft all at once, the tightness in her chest, the lightness in her belly, the wetness between her legs—it felt too good for the wrongness of the scenario.

Thrawn spoke—or answered—what felt like an eternity later, his eyes unreadable, offering no clue as to whether or not he’d heard. 

“Kiss me.”

Like an automaton, unable to even contemplate disobedience, Pryce lifted her neck the infinitesimal distance between them and complied. She felt his heat, his mouth parting for her, offering the warmth and welcome she’d felt earlier when he’d carried her. Heedless of her doubts, tongues tangled eager and strong when Thrawn’s cock entered her body.

~~

_Glazed pupils, flushed skin, unsteady breath._

Thrawn’s mind was a complete blank. It wouldn’t do to contemplate or reflect further, they were beyond that. Pryce’s body clenched around him, tight and resistant, as he pushed ever deeper. Her mouth twisted into his kiss, a small cry muffled by lips as tasted her, fever and salt. 

Thrawn closed his eyes.

Without the distraction of sight, everything was heat, consuming and slick, and touch, torrid and shaky. Pryce’s hands flexed and tightened in time with his thrusts as he moved faster. Another cry left her throat. Sharp fingernails scored his lower back. Thrawn forced his eyes open, seeing Pryce’s blue stare, watery and wide, closer than they had ever been.

“Fuck,” she breathed. Then, as if the word itself had been a surprise, her eyes rounded, pupils pulsing. “You’re…”

She trailed off and Thrawn made himself slow, coming to a stop buried inside her. Pryce flinched as he shifted his hips. 

_Eyelids tightening, the corners of her lips pulling back, cheeks’ shadows waving as the muscles lift…_

He was hurting her. Thrawn bit back a curse. He thought she’d been ready, wanted to make this first experience as brief and painless as possible. 

Their limited options flickered through his mind. With the dwindling levels of stim in her system, she would pass out again soon regardless. Kinder to peak inside her unconscious body? Withdrawal was not an option, he _had_ to attempt insemination, the research had been quite clear on that point. And they didn’t have time to find more comfortable positions for penetration.

“Why’d you stop?” Pryce’s voice was harsh, accusing. Thrawn answered without thinking, matching her irritated tone.

“You are in pain.”

_Fingers curling against his hips, mouth pressing into a thin line._

“I’ve got a broken leg, a deflated lung, and look like I went ten rounds with a rancor. Of _course_ I’m in pain.”

“That was not my meaning.”

“I know.” Her hips bowed into his, a suck of oxygen hissing through her teeth at the result. Taking him to her limit was certainly a masochistic punctuation to her sentence. “No time to discuss in committee, Thrawn, just…finish.”

A series of Cheunh profanities came to his lips, and Thrawn swallowed them with effort. His erection, thankfully, was so tightly sheathed that despite Pryce’s libido-dampening words, he could continue. Yet even as she urged him to just get this over with, the fact remained that they had two more weeks of sex to “finish” and Thrawn vowed not to repeat this experience. Even as he considered, he saw Pryce’s blue eyes start to dim. The stim shot was wearing off, and whatever she was suffering from penetration wasn’t enough to keep her alert.

Thrawn knew it was preposterous to expect her to enjoy it—his goal had been to incite arousal that allowed for biological acceptance rather than psychological welcome—but he keenly felt the failure of adding to her injuries. The heavy weight of self-censure loomed, even as he began moving again. Pryce was right. It couldn’t be helped, and better to “finish” with her consent than come inside an unresponsive shell.

The outside edges of her eyes tightened, the lids hooded as he drove harder.

“Kiss me.” Her instruction this time, not his.

~~

For a moment, Pryce thought he would refuse. It was no time to be noble, and, despite the misery of her joints, the uncomfortable stretch of his cock, and the bizarre burning itch that had begun on her abdomen and seemed to be getting worse with each passing moment, she was aware this was just the first time.

Only the first time. He would fuck her again. 

Many more times.

The reminder of that reality had made her ask for the kiss, begging for some deluded normalcy to carry them forward and past this awkward virgin encounter.

Thrawn’s mouth covered hers obligingly, his hot tongue slow as it swept hers, even as his thrusts sped up. Air escaped her lungs in a choked scream as Pryce wrapped battered arms around his neck, trying to lose herself in his lips. It seemed to work, as everything took on a fuzzy sheen, her own body softening, her muscles loosening. The heady sensation of falling, a downward, lulling trajectory to trance-like numbness was beckoning. 

Without warning, white exploded behind her eyelids, as if she’d slammed her head into an errant overhang. It wasn’t an orgasm in the typical sense of the word, wasn’t accompanied by anything approaching pleasure, but nonetheless Pryce felt a wash of calm descend as Thrawn stiffened above her. She vaguely registered the warmth of him, sticky, thick, filling her in waves. Eventually she found strength to open her eyes, tasting his mouth again with a strange sensation of triumph. Then white turned to black and the world slipped away.


	4. Biosynthesis

Pryce collapsed beneath him.

_Eyes drooping, slitted, unseeing, mouth slack, lips swollen, head lolling left. Temperature stabilizing._

His partner’s lack of awareness provided him a moment’s privacy. Letting out the foulest curses he could remember, Thrawn surrendered to a deep-rooted mélange of toxic anger and self-recrimination as he pulled out.

Pushing off her prone form, Thrawn forced himself to confront the proof of their success. Grabbing a towel, he wiped up the drops between her thighs, disgusted at himself and the barbaric avarice of beings that resulted in the manufacture of this disease.

It was perhaps a mercy that she’d passed out—it had been horribly clear that Pryce had suffered. The idea that they could be incompatible sexually hadn’t occurred to him. Thrawn knew there was no physical obstacle to mating with a human. He’d made certain of her lubrication, tried not to appear rushed; she’d responded favorably at first. So why had she cringed, withdrawn into the mattress as if trying to escape his cock without any apparent trigger?

The cock in question twitched against his leg, and Thrawn let out a grunt of aggravation. He would adapt, as would she. There was no alternative.

After cleaning up, Thrawn retied Pryce’s standard issue medcenter robe with a traditional Chiss healing knot. His fingers moved instinctively, and it was only as he wound the wide corded fabric twice over itself into the final loop that he realized what he was doing. Unexpected nostalgia floated whisper-like through Thrawn’s senses as he finished the ritual, oddly comforted at how deeply embedded customs surfaced so far from home.

He was glad she slept.

The emdee droid came at Thrawn’s summons, unfazed by his commander’s state of undress or Pryce’s stupor. No doubt it was used to a host of bizarre behaviors when treating patients with terminal diseases. At some point Thrawn imagined he would find the energy to explain the Firrerrean ‘cure’ to their metal physician, but now was not that moment.

“I have done as you instructed, Grand Admiral. While there is no exact guidance for screening Firrerrean virus in modern medical databanks, I was able to replicate a test using all available records regarding the pathogens and infection analysis.”

“Good.” Drained, he didn’t have much else to offer. “Test her.” The droid assured him of compliance, pulling out a radial syringe. “And then me.”

“Yes sir.”

After his blood had been drawn, Thrawn retreated to the refresher. While Lambdas were most commonly used as troop transports, this one had been outfitted for more illustrious guests, hence the subdivision of its floor plan into what could best be described as a living suite. It was not altogether unlike his personal shuttle, albeit an earlier model with no weaponry and only rudimentary shields. Still, it was adequate to its purpose, despite the age. He washed on autopilot, the stuttering operation of the sonic’s neglected plumbing practically hypnotic. It was evident parts of the ship had not been well-maintained by its former owners. 

Uncharacteristically jittery, Thrawn forced himself to review what had just occurred. Whatever he had expected and prepared for, it wasn’t this. To be a further source of pain to her, rather than a heroic rescuer… His own hubris was disconcerting, appalling. Pryce wasn’t herself, of course. She was injured—even scared, perhaps.

Yet in other ways, she was too _much_ herself, that hard center that he had always admired present, untouched by circumstances. It made it all the more difficult to witness the softer, fragile parts of her, knowing they were exposed against her will. Pryce understood their plight; she had agreed to what needed to be done (not that she had much choice), and, for the most fleeting of moments, when her chapped lips had first softened under his, Thrawn had naïvely believed that she might even welcome his presence, be thankful of her choice.

Idiocy. Unworthy of even the most unseasoned recruits, and here he was, battle-hardened beyond his years, and still grasping for some connection that was as improbable as it was inadvisable.

Turning off the shower, Thrawn reached for a towel, wrapping it around his hips and staring at the mirror opposite.

_Eyes discolored, skin flushed, jaw locked._

Blinking, he took a step towards the door and stumbled, catching himself on the sink edge. Struggling upright, Thrawn analyzed his pulse, his respiration. No, he did not feel well. The sonic had not refreshed him, and he was feverish. He groped for stability, eyes glancing down to the backs of his fingers, which had turned pale from the force of his grip on the faux porcelain.

Thrawn dragged himself back into the main suite. The emdee was running a bioscanner over Pryce's leg. 

“Sir, I’m afraid I have some unpleasant news.”

A grim smile crossed his lips, the droid’s words sounding an echo in his memory. Nothing but bad news, not since Faro had come to his door three days prior.

“I tested positive.” It was not a question.

“Yes. Your viral load is astonishingly high, considering the short duration of exposure. Currently estimated at 300,000.”

“300,000?” Thrawn fought to concentrate—the room’s lighting had turned dim in his vision. “Per millilitre?”

“Yes, very good sir.” The droid looked pleased at his comprehension. “However, Governor Pryce’s is more concerning. Nearing 500,000.”

“Is there any way to tell if it is decreasing?”

“Not at present, but I will test you both as frequently as you request, or every six hours, whichever is sooner. I also am finetuning the testing protocols for more specific results in the future.”

Thrawn nodded. “Six hours then.”

“Sir, may I check your vitals?”

Nodding, Thrawn sat on a low vedaweave sofa, holding out a shaky arm. The droid was quick and thorough. He pronounced Thrawn undernourished and dehydrated, before lecturing as to the importance of sleep as a critical weapon in the war against disease. The emdee seemed proud of this metaphor, perhaps due to his audience, and Thrawn dismissed him after accepting some nutrient bulbs and agreeing to rest.

Pryce still slept. 

~~

Her eyes protested waking, rolling beneath closed lids, grating sand lining their sockets. Pryce groaned, throwing an arm over her face to block the brightness that somehow was filtering through despite all attempts to avoid it.

The movement stung worse than the pain in her head, and with a sickening rush, events came back to her. 

Thrawn had fucked her.

That was true, but wasn’t entirely accurate. He had fucked her, yes, to save her life. So…

They had fucked.

Slightly better, or worse? Pryce didn't know. 

She screwed her eyes shut even tighter, remembering the unfamiliar taste of him, the hot press of his tongue on her lips, her jaw, her throat. And his body, hard and heavy, unyielding as he took her, owned her, shook her as she lay. She hadn’t just been powerless, she’d been _inept_ —completely useless, beholden to his cock for salvation. And worse—she’d _fainted_ , like a shrinking virgin intimidated by her wedding night ravishment.

The memory felt bizarre, like a dream she had embellished. Thrawn had _kissed_ her. Not exactly the kisses of her fantasies, but the recollection made her stomach flutter nonetheless. He’d touched her… impatiently, yes, but not clumsily. Not inexpertly. Not— 

Of course not, Pryce shook her head automatically, grimacing at the resulting pain in her neck. Thrawn had probably studied human female anatomy in preparation for this. Or had women before. Undoubtedly. The idea bothered her, and she pushed it away. Thrawn, like herself, didn’t have time for anything more than a fling, she was certain. And so what if he did? She had no claim to him. Stupid to even contemplate his sexual history.

Anyhow, none of this was fair to Thrawn, she knew that, slowly breathing in the warm cabin air. He had been expedient, yes, but not rough or unkind. And, she abruptly realized, her lungs felt better. More…capable. Testing, Pryce sucked in another gulp of oxygen, holding it, exhaling through her nose. Her respiration was definitely improving. 

Relief gave her strength, and she hauled herself upright, letting her hands drop and eyes crack open.

Thrawn was asleep, stretched out on a small, overstuffed sofa in the room, clad only in a white towel. One leg was hanging over the arm of the furniture, the other heel resting at an odd angle on the floor. He looked as if he’d been shot with a blaster and died where he fell. The notion was ridiculous, but nonetheless Pryce’s chest constricted in fear at the comparison.

Although it seemed cruel to wake him, Pryce was too disturbed by Thrawn’s position, by the fatal vision her brain had conjured, so she called out.

“Thrawn.”

He stirred, then threw one arm over his eyes, much as she had upon waking.

“Thrawn!”

Suddenly he was upright, standing as if yanked to attention by a puppeteer’s string. Perhaps a military reflex, this lurch to the vertical.

“Governor.” That also sounded like a reflex.

The towel slipped on his hips, hanging precariously, but did not fall off. Pryce tried not to notice. She decided not to point out his lapse in address, since he had just snapped awake, but she would go mad if he kept calling her ‘Governor’ between fucks.

“I’m sorry to wake you, but you looked…” 

He waited for her to finish and finally she found a suitable word that didn’t mean “dead.” 

“…unwell.”

“Ah.”

Thrawn seemed to relax, more at ease, then looked down at his crotch as if just recalling he wasn’t clothed.

“I have tested positive for the virus, as have you, Gov—Arihnda.” He briefly explained the emdee’s methods and verdicts.

“I’m sorry.”

He shook his head, rejecting the apology. “This is as intended. We must both be infected in order to both be cured.”

“I remember,” she answered, something weighted and strange in the words.

Ignoring the tension which seemed thick in the room, Thrawn sat back down on the sofa, reaching for an open nutrient bulb on the floor. “I imagine I will display more obvious symptoms before we improve.”

“I hope so.” She quickly corrected. “I mean, that we improve, not the symptoms thing.”

“I understand.” He took a long drink, avoiding her eyes. It was so unlike the Grand Admiral that Pryce wondered exactly how sick he already was.

“Thrawn.” He nodded, still not looking at her. “Please look at me.”

His head jerked up, eyes burning into hers. For the first time, she noticed his skin seemed blotchy, uneven shades rather than the cool, rich blue that she was accustomed to appreciating. Did she look as unhealthy as he did?

“Thank you for saving my life. I’m sorry that…that you’re sick too.”

There, that was a good start. She wanted to say more, but it seemed not just superfluous, but foolish. Of course she was grateful, and he must know her well enough after all these years to understand what she meant.

Thrawn swallowed, looking odd and ill at ease. No doubt some of that could be attributed to his attire, or rather lack of it, but Pryce knew both of them were ignoring the bantha in the room. He was suffering, clearly, but so was she, and they needed one another to survive.

“Now…” She tried to put on an air of dignity, despite the situation. Holding his gaze, Pryce used her hands to help swing her uncooperative leg over the side of the bed. “How often…” Shavit, she hadn’t planned the best way to phrase this. “How frequently are…“treatments” required?”

~~

The room was oppressively hot, air scalding his lungs. Thrawn took another swig from the nutrient bulb, only to see it was empty. He popped open a second, trying to recover his equilibrium. It wasn’t just Pryce’s wakeup call that had set him off balance, it was this sense that he was weakening with each passing moment, unable to think clearly, unable to reason or rationalize. 

She looked improved, marginally, but his sight blurred when he attempted to evaluate her temperature using the infrared spectrum. Given his earlier observation about her practical nature, her immutable core, Thrawn appreciated Pryce’s question, however subtly she was phrasing it. The data had been inconclusive regarding the issue, and he’d already decided to let their test results determine the necessary intervals for viral dilution.

He tried to answer, mouth opening to speak. He would suggest they consider the idea of a schedule loosely, in order to preserve some sense of control, some delusion that they were not fucking at the whim of some long-dead, sadistic breeder conglomerate. Instead, he took another drink of water.

The liquid was freezing as it flowed down his throat. What had he meant to say? Thrawn clenched one hand in a fist, trying to recall. Exhaustion hit like a wall, and he locked his knees to keep upright.

Pryce laughed, a harsh, crisp sound that seemed bitter to his ears. His silence must have been misinterpreted.

“Perhaps the euphemism is more off-putting than the facts. I apologize.” She looked as if she was considering getting off the bed, standing, something that Thrawn felt an extremely precarious course of action. Scooting to the side so her ass leaned on the mattress, arms buttressing her up behind, Pryce settled one foot tentatively on the ground. “When should we fuck again?”

Thrawn set down the bulb, feeling the condensation on his fingertips with a bizarre sense of contentment.

“I believe—”

Before he could continue, Pryce slipped, grappling for the mattress. Thrawn lunged in her direction, movements drunken but fast enough. He seized her forearm, wrenching her upright, as his other hand supported them both on the edge of the bed.

“Thank you,” she started, but then Thrawn stumbled, releasing her just in time and falling with a thud onto the floor.

His towel dislodged.

Pryce gave up trying to support herself, lowering with a groan to awkwardly sit facing him. Her plasticast-encased leg bumped against his right thigh, the differences in texture a reminder he was naked.

“Maybe easier to talk here?” she ventured.

_Eyes bright, skin reddened, pain tightening the edges of her mouth._

His observation of her mouth brought with it memories of her desperate kiss, bruised arms constricting around him as he forced himself inside her narrow body.

“Maybe,” Thrawn agreed, reaching to resecure the towel and halt that train of thought. Pryce’s hand covered his, stopping the arc of movement.

“Wait.” Her voice held a hint of humor. “I sort of wanted to see… if that’s all right?”

Eyebrows lifting, he nodded, fingers loosening on the waffled zeydcloth. They hardly had secrets at this point. Thrawn tried not to tense, telling himself her reaction meant nothing, and the curiosity was not just normal, but healthy. He was an alien, and she had every right to examine his physique, to want to understand how he differed from the lovers she had before. And Thrawn was confident in his own body, despite their unsettling first encounter.

_Blue eyes relax, hands tense, pulse accelerating in her neck. A small bead of sweat slides down her temple._

He pushed himself higher on one elbow, and flipped open the towel.

_Head tilts, lips press together. Heat builds beneath her skin._

~~

Pryce wasn’t a fool—all men had high opinions of their genitalia. She doubted, for all his apparently superior qualities, that the Grand Admiral was any different. No matter what she saw, she promised herself to be appropriately impressed and complimentary.

Her first thought, however, was it wasn’t difficult to see why sex had been painful. Even limp, sleeping against his leg, Thrawn’s cock was big—easily the size of an erect human male’s. It had an unusual curve, although she couldn’t tell if it was just the angle of her observation or actual shape. Raised ridges along the sides bulged, perhaps veins, or something else, a texture. It was a slightly paler blue than rest of him, although the base and testicles looked purplish. But for all its differences, it was clearly a cock, obviously meant for fucking, and definitely unlike anything she’d ever seen before.

Biting her lip to delay, Pryce wondered as to a suitable reaction, how to address the issue. For all she knew, he could be a hideous specimen for his race (did they _all_ have that curve?), or have some weird hangup about size. But from her perspective, Thrawn’s whole body was perfect, the muscles of his abdomen just as distracting as the sight of his cock, the bends of his collarbones and the lines of his neck worth immortalizing in one of the portraits he found so fascinating. His arms, thighs, everything was ideally proportioned, like a statue carved from blue fogstone.

But she could hardly say that, could she? Before Pryce could decide, her mouth answered for her.

“Wow.”

 _That explains it,_ she wanted to say, but figured that would come out more negative than she wished to sound. However large he was, she would have to accommodate. No choice. And now, seeing him naked, she couldn’t deny a surge of heat between her legs at the sight.

“Wow.” Thrawn’s echo was tinged with amusement, and it relieved her. They both sounded more normal than since this nightmare had begun, despite the madness of the diorama—sitting on a durasteel shipdeck, Thrawn completely nude, her in cast and robe, mottled with injuries.

“Well,” she pushed some hair away from her eyes, flinching from the bandage she grazed. Why didn’t the damn painkillers work better? “Surely you realize you’re very well-endowed, by human standards?”

He shrugged, but his cock moved as well, a reflection of the gesture? Or demonstrating interest in her topic? But when Thrawn spoke, his voice was low, cautious.

“Earlier—”

“Let’s forget ‘earlier’,” Pryce interrupted, “and—”

A cough then cut off her phrase, and she held up a finger to keep him from speaking until the fit subsided. Thrawn tucked the towel back over his groin, standing and helping her sit on the bed.

“And,” she finally continued, “you were right, you know, your idea.” Thrawn tilted his head, a question in the movement that he didn’t voice. “We didn’t have time to discuss it, I understand, but now we can…” Here she faltered, trying to come up with words, her wrist rotating as if summoning the words from an alternate dimension.

~~

He had underestimated the Governor of Lothal. Clearly Pryce was attempting to negotiate or discuss some sort of terms. Her shameless assessment of his cock had been surprising, but, Thrawn decided, not unwelcome. It was better to remove any mystery or hesitation between them. He had resisted the urge to invite her to touch, watching her eyes roam with interest up his entire torso. 

It was clear she didn’t find him unappealing, if the accelerated pulse and displaced heat between her legs were any indication. And now, she had a strong set to her shoulders, a more resolute aura. He wasn’t certain what “idea” of his Pryce was referring to, but he was open to examining how to improve the next thirteen days in one another’s company.

The principal problem, as far as Thrawn was concerned, was he currently felt categorically ill. The viral load in his bloodstream was light compared to hers, but since he was likely the first Chiss ever infected, there was no precedent to refer to regarding toxicity and symptoms apart from those recorded in other species.

He sat on the foot of the bed, a good distance away. The support helped, and he was able to better focus on Pryce’s words, her spinning hand. She evidently didn’t know how best to complete her thought, but Thrawn guessed at her purpose.

“We can take a more informed approach to,” he paused, but just barely, appropriating her vocabulary, “fucking one another.”

“Exactly.”

_Pulse slowing, eyes dimming, hands folded in her lap._

Pryce was plainly relieved that he had entered the discussion, and gave no visible sign of distaste that he could discern.

“Perhaps you could share your personal preferences, Arihnda.”

The words came slowly, as if he were translating them one by one before pronunciation. It was the most logical course, to learn her likes, her erogenous zones. Typically, should this have been a romantic relationship, Thrawn would have enjoyed devoting hours to learning her body in sensual detail, but circumstances seemed unlikely to allow them leisurely afternoons of sexual exploration. At least until they both markedly improved.

_Lower eyelids tense, wrinkles on forehead, mouth pulling back._

The question seemed to embarrass her, but Pryce quickly recovered.

“If you tell me yours, after?”

Thrawn nodded in agreement, just as his hand began to tremble next to his thigh. He didn’t trust his voice, fisting his shaking fingers in the bedcover and meeting her gaze.

_Lips rolling between teeth, moistening. Throat contracting, fingers increasing pressure on the backs of her hands._

“I liked kissing you. Kissing.”

Her quick correction to generalize was noted. Something twisted in his chest and Thrawn nodded again, hoping it was encouraging, even as the blood in his head began pounding so loud he felt it would drown out Pryce’s words.

“And…the position was fine. I don’t mind it, I mean, being on the bottom, but we can change that too. But maybe to start—to adjust, because—”

Blinking rapidly, Thrawn tried to read her lips as she continued, even as the sound of her voice turned dim and muted in his ears. His other hand tightened along the edge of the bed.

“Arihnda—”

Scowling at his interruption, Pryce’s face fell into dismay as she apparently saw some physical manifestation of his distress.

“Thrawn! Are you…lie down!”

He strained to hear her words, no longer able to keep his eyes open.

“The emdee…”

~~

Frozen to the spot, Pryce could only watch Thrawn slump to the side, crumbling like a felled cloudcutter. She screamed for the droid, hoping it could hear through the walls. There was no comm to be seen, and the wall inset controls seemed impossible to reach, just beside the door. She managed to propel herself across the mattress to Thrawn’s body just as the portal whisked open.

“Help him!” she yelled, surprised at the volume she’d achieved. If Thrawn died, she died too. That was perhaps not the most noble purpose to save him, but it _was_ the most urgent.

The droid, to its credit, made no argument and wasted no time. It injected several substances into Thrawn’s boneless arm, taking a quick read of his vitals with a bioscanner pulled from its metal hip, and then flipped the Chiss as if he weighed nothing. Pryce watched in horror as an immense hypoinjector was inserted into Thrawn’s spine.

“Governor, the Grand Admiral’s condition has worsened.”

“Obviously,” she growled.

“When you were in a similar state, he instructed me to give you one point five stim shots of restricted strength. You improved greatly after this treatment.”

 _Not **that** treatment,_ she thought with no humor.

“Give him two. He’s bigger than me.”

“Yes, Governor.”

Thrawn did not jerk to alertness as she’d hoped after the dosage. His thinly-veined eyelids flickered, then stilled.

“Give him another one.”

“His body weight cannot absorb another full dose. You risk cardiac arrest.”

“Give me one then,” she commanded.

“You are already alert,” the droid protested.

“Give me one or I’ll turn you into scrap!” Pryce snarled, wanting to scream. One of them had to stay conscious, or they would both die.

The reluctant emdee approached and Pryce bared her neck, gritting her teeth. The stim hit like a triple shot of undiluted caf, and she felt her limbs tingle with rediscovered sensation.

“Now leave. Come back…in an hour to check on us.”

“Understood.” The droid was halfway through the door when Pryce called it back.

“Wait! Move him further onto the bed, face up. In the center. Then go.”

It complied without complaint. Before it had even left the room, Pryce had crawled atop Thrawn. She tugged off the towel with effort. Despite the energy from the stim, she had never felt so weak.

What if he didn’t respond? What if he couldn’t perform and died as a result? 

The cock that had fascinated her earlier now looked primarily daunting. Knowing she was likely postponing to a dangerous degree, she bent and pressed her lips to his. She imagined the faintest return pressure.

“Stay with me,” she ordered against his mouth, then moved down his body. She couldn’t glide, nothing so graceful with a broken leg. It was more a tripping, bumbling descent, her cast still maddeningly clunky, catching on the sheet. She hissed in pain and wrenched it free to slide lower.

Elbowing Thrawn’s thighs wide, she grasped his cock, giving it an experimental squeeze. Nothing, no response. Desperation threatened as she dipped her neck, wrapping her lips around the head. She sucked, taking him deeper, propping herself up on her elbows and working her mouth as far down as possible along his shaft. The ridges lining his length were strange as she flattened her tongue to allow more down her throat. His scent was bitter and salt, the accompanying tang growing appealing as he hardened. Proud of her quick results, Pryce circled his base with her thumb and forefinger and began to pump, timing her mouth’s rhythm to her hand.

Thrawn’s erection expanded between her lips, limiting ease of movement. Breathing through her nose, Pryce was peripherally aware of her own arousal, clouded by illness. She was getting wet, and wanted him. A few more strokes and then…

The weight of his hand against her head might have been surprising, or even off-putting, but it turned her on even more. She’d awoken him like a princess in a holofable, and now her prior sense of urgency was tempered by a desire to prove her ability to pleasure. His fingers slid along her scalp with each bob of her neck, sending erotic ripples to every sensitive place. Thrawn’s second hand joined the first, the massage moving from her hair to her nape and shoulders as Pryce took him faster. Encouraged by his touch, she closed her eyes, tasting him, enjoying the exotic flavor of his skin, the alien texture of his cock as it glided, sloppy and wet now, along the channel of her mouth.

Those long fingers left her head and then suddenly she was lifted, pulled higher. With a soft grunt, Thrawn aligned their lips, muscles shedding their atrophy. Her leg was battered against the mattress, a pain she denied and dismissed, focusing instead of the sharpness of hipbones colliding. 

The heat of Thrawn’s eyes felt different, admiring, when she bent to kiss him. Rigid arms enveloped her, holding her almost too tight. His tongue roughly swiped her mouth, energy transferring between them like sparks dancing along power couplings. 

Pryce reached between her thighs, fingers wrapping around the erection she took all the credit for, and guided him. Exhaling sharply, she almost cried out when he slid in one fluid motion hilt-deep inside, but managed to bite it back. She was wet, more ready than before, but he was still large—larger than anyone she’d ever had. Pryce gasped for air and tried to adjust. It was ridiculously complicated, sexual logistics with a broken leg. She couldn’t sit on his lap, couldn’t regulate the angle like she wanted. 

Thrawn’s hands latched onto her hips, rolling her against him even deeper, his eyes fiery with an intensity that hadn’t been there the first time.

It felt good, really good, but her leg crashed into his again and she was less able to control her recoil.

Her partner had seen, analyzed, and found a solution. Before Pryce could figure out what had happened, Thrawn was sitting upright, her legs directed straight behind him, thighs against his hips as he lowered her, facing him, back onto his cock. His chest rubbed against the material of her still tied bathrobe, and he offered his lips up to her again. 

She accepted them eagerly, feeling the heat of his mouth, the press of his kiss now familiar. Her hands covered his, redirecting them, bringing him inside the cross of the robe to her ribs. Thrawn leaned into her, thumbs grazing her nipples before sliding up to her shoulders, shoving the material down to her elbows, trapping her arms and freeing her breasts for his mouth.

“Yes,” she breathed, the word devolving into a moan as his teeth caught the tip, sucking hard as his tongue teased. She squirmed against his mouth, hands scrambling for support as he started to drive up, harder.

Thrawn switched to the other side as Pryce ground down against his cock. A spike of pain shot through with intense pleasure resulted and she cried out, fingernails digging into Thrawn’s skin. He slowed, and she sensed his uncertainty.

“Don’t stop.”

He nibbled along her chest as if proving he could take his time, then pushed her down onto her back so fast it felt instantaneous, not losing a beat as he rose and fell. The pressure was delicious, the feel of him even more so now that she had seen his cock; the texture and sensations seemed impossibly, irrationally heightened.

“Yes,” she panted, urging him on. Thrawn dropped a hand between them, a throbbing in her clit that she hadn’t registered suddenly all-consuming. She was normally slow to come, and already felt so close, so wonderfully close…

Thrawn’s fingers moved faster as the rhythm of his fucking sped up. Everything felt simultaneously numb and hypersensitive—it made no sense but it was undeniable. Her orgasm came into focus and blurred, never clear for long enough to be realized. Angry at her body’s intractability, Pryce gripped Thrawn’s ass and pulled him harder to her. Although it was her own fault—her own action—the resulting pain shattered any potential climax. It had the opposite effect on her partner, as Thrawn’s muscles tensed, his head fell to her neck, and he came with a low moan.

Her pulse battered her veins, the frenzied palpitations of her denied orgasm slowly subsiding as she wound her arms around Thrawn’s shoulders. The heat of him, the weight of him was soothing. It had been unconscious—instinct or something more embarrassing—but happened before she could consider the appropriateness of post-coital intimacies in these circumstances.

~~

_Heat, sweat—sick and slick— Fatigue._

Thrawn lay unmoving, attempting to will himself energy. His senses were blunted by the strength of his orgasm, and just when he intended to roll off Pryce, her embrace gave him pause. He’d failed her—that much he remembered. She hadn’t come. Again.

Thrawn inhaled slowly, taking in the silvery scent of her skin, her hair, the sweat-soaked cloth of the bedsheet. The reality of Pryce’s feverish hands, her forearms against his back, seemed no more concrete than this bizarre situation. As he considered, her arms slipped away like a dream after waking, but Thrawn didn’t move immediately.

Another round of dilution of the viral load achieved. Perhaps there was no purpose to her embrace, especially considering its departure. It still felt…close to normal, to lie here. But he was heavy, and it wouldn’t do to surrender to lethargy atop her.

With an involuntary groan, Thrawn shifted, withdrew. 

The bed wasn’t narrow, but his dismount took him just to her side, not far. Her sweat-speckled chest dominated his view, and with effort, Thrawn pulled himself higher, to see those large blue eyes watching him. The virus raged in his blood. 

“Better?” she asked.

He wasn’t sure if she was referring to how he felt, or their considerably improved coupling. In either case, the answer was the same.

“Better,” he affirmed, “but you…”

“I’m fine,” she cut him off, eyes flashing a warning not to press. Thrawn let it go. He would respect the interruption for what it was—a clear signal that Pryce didn’t wish to discuss anything at the moment.

They both should clean up, but Thrawn doubted his ability to walk. He was definitely still ailing. Perhaps better to send for the emdee.

“The virus’ onset was more rapid than I had anticipated,” he said instead. “Thank you for intervening.”

She didn’t reply, but tilted towards him, a displacement of bony shoulders and full breasts that Thrawn found distracting.

“Arihnda.” He mirrored the lean of her, wanting to give her something she needed now, and more uncertain than before as to what that would be.

_Eyes closing, mouth tense, lines deepening in her cheeks._

“Can we sleep?”

The question was low, not a whisper, but something solemn in her request, like a prayer.

“Yes.”

A swell of affection took Thrawn by surprise. It was already well-established that Pryce was tough, but she also had a capacity for passion that he wanted to explore. The memory of her moans and sighs as his mouth teased and tugged made his stomach tighten and cock flex. And her ingenuity—her quick thinking—had prevented an even more difficult situation.

Thrawn had little doubt Pryce’s actions were rooted in self-preservation, but it didn’t shadow his evaluation of her now—a mess of contradictions: sensitive and stubborn, delicate-bones encased in a durasteel shell, practical and determined but yielding and warm. 

He’d always known the Governor of Lothal was flammable, ready to ignite at the slightest hint of disrespect, liable to crush a perceived enemy without pause or compunction. Far from innocent, there was nonetheless something pure about her, a complexity that intrigued him. Like all of lofty Imperial rank, her power had been hard-won, he knew that without asking; ruthless ambition had built and sustained her. She’d paid a price for her position. And looking at her now—the worry lines in her forehead, the tightness of her eyelids, the set of her jaw—Thrawn wondered at the cost.

His fatigue was getting harder to ignore, and lack of movement was feeding the exhaustion. Sleep was close. Thrawn scooted slightly away, giving Pryce space. 

The distance made the position of her hand, lying just by her cheek, more obvious. After a moment’s deliberation, Thrawn lay his over it, relieved when she curled her fingers around the blade of his palm. Her eyes stayed shut, but some of the lines of tension edging them disappeared. 

It was the last thing he noticed before joining Pryce in unconsciousness.


	5. Maturation

_Quarantine Day Two_

“Do pardon me, Grand Admiral, Governor.”

The solicitous drone of the emdee woke her. Pryce grimaced, aches everywhere. What the hell was the droid doing in their quarters? She sat up, seeing Thrawn prone and unconscious at her side.

He looked drugged, or drunk, or both. She felt less ill than when Thrawn found her, but that wasn’t saying much. At present, he was more blatantly showing the effects of the virus. Apart from the random coughing fit here and there, most of her misery now stemmed from injuries suffered in the crash.

“What’s wrong?” she snapped.

It seemed likely something had to be wrong, after all. Otherwise, what was it doing here? Didn’t it have some sort of discretion built into its programming? Pryce clutched at the bedsheet covering her chest. She had no memory of getting underneath it, and modesty was beyond superfluous now, but old habits died hard.

“Oh dear,” the emdee tutted, coming to her side. “Nothing except your infection, I hope. I am here because it has been six hours since I last evaluated your viral load. Please hold out your arm.”

Pryce did so, automatically.

“I will evaluate you every six hours, more often should conditions require it.”

“Check Thrawn too,” she instructed.

“Of course, I also am monitoring the Grand Admiral. Your health is expected to decline due to high concentrations of Firrerean virus in your blood.”

“What’s a lethal concentration?”

“Uncertain.” The droid moved around the bedside and unceremoniously yanked Thrawn’s limp arm to its full extension before taking another sample. “There is not enough data to determine. However general estimates suggest one million parts per millilitre as terminal for any species.”

“What’s his?” she whispered. 

The emdee was silent, processing and calculating.

“You both have approximately the same viral load. Just over 400,000.”

“That’s good?”

“As I mentioned, data is limited and the term ‘good’ is at best subjective when discussing fatal infection. I can state with certainty that your condition appears to be improving, while the Grand Admiral’s is declining. The viral concentration in your bloodstream has dropped significantly, while his has increased.”

Stars, this droid was starting to _remind_ her of Thrawn, with his brusque and logical syntax. Never had ‘fatal infection’ been delivered in such a bloodless manner. One would expect a medbay droid to have a better bedside manner, Pryce griped to herself, suddenly feverish.

“Increased?”

It didn’t seem possible. Weren’t they supposed to be diluting the virus? Weakening it as they passed it? Sure, they had only fucked twice, but if she already felt the effects of the reduction in concentration, how could he be worse? And if they had the same amount right now, why was Thrawn the only one incapacitated?

“Yes. His viral load has increased by approximately the same factor yours has dropped.” The droid glided over to the portal. “Do you require anything else?” Its metal head spun towards the bed. “Reproductive suppressors, perhaps?” She glared venom. The emdee misinterpreted, attempting to correct. “Fertility enhancers?”

Anger, hot and welcome, surged into her veins. Pryce’s hands fisted as she swung her legs over the side of the bed. The broken limb gave no protest, much to her satisfaction. The cast had worked, and hopefully could come off soon.

“You idiot waste of bolts! Of course I _require_ something else. Can’t you see his condition?” Pryce flung a bandaged hand to indicate Thrawn. “Do something about it. Help him!”

“Apart from analgesics for comfort and nutrients for sustenance, there is nothing I can provide to assist, I’m afraid.”

With a growl, she stalked half-naked to the metal heap facing her down. “So give him that! And another stim shot, if that will help.”

“It will not.” Disapproval was strong in its tone. Pryce was even more annoyed. The thing was programmed to express negative feedback yet faked empathy was beyond it?

“Fine. Painkillers and food. Now.”

The emdee returned quickly, at least. Thrawn stirred when it hooked the auto-IV to his hand, blue eyelids becoming creases of red, evaluating the tubing before finding Pryce, robe still clinging to her hips, standing watch.

“You look improved,” he rasped.

“I _feel_ improved,” she replied. “You’re worse.” She moved to the bed, studiously ignoring his nakedness, attempting to appear casual as she pulled the billowing sleeves back over her bruised arms.

“I also will improve, over time. It is expected, that I display symptoms after… contagion…” A series of disjointed coughs halted his speech and Pryce blanched. 

It hurt to listen to him. She knew it was irrational, but the thought of Thrawn had always summoned strength and reliability, even apart from the power and authority of his station. Anything less was— She cut off the thought, wondering if Thrawn would die from her idiotic selfishness. Maybe Chiss were exempt from this ‘cure.’ Maybe it wouldn’t work. And maybe thinking about it would drive her insane, so she searched for something to say.

“According to the droid, we have the same amount of plague in our blood.”

Thrawn pushed himself to a sitting position, evaluating the tube in his arm. His shifting eyes and twisted lips indicated confusion. Did he not remember being intubated? Or the purpose?

“A nutrient drip,” Pryce explained, afraid at this evidence that the virus was affecting Thrawn’s wits.

With a slow nod, he took a thick pillow from the far corner and propped it behind his back, settling into its square cushion. The emptiness of his expression was disturbing. Pryce moved gingerly back to the bed, pulling herself up on the foot, legs straight out in front of her.

“We were—”

~~

His limbs felt brittle—liable to crack if he moved rapidly. Thrawn recognized the impression as ridiculous, but was powerless to suppress it. So he was careful, deliberate and slow in changing position, making sure the softness of the pillow was between his back and the wall before he felt adequately protected.

Belatedly, he realized Pryce had spoken. Her voice rang hollow, distant in his memory. The jumbled sludge of his thoughts refused to coalesce. Thrawn blinked once, twice, then got his tongue to work.

“Stim shot.”

It came out sounding muddy and thick, but she understood.

“The emdee said another might give you a heart attack.”

He processed the words as if hearing them through a transcom. _Another_? It was a wonder he was conscious, hard to believe he'd already been dosed.

“Hit me.”

_Eyes rounding, mouth parting, pulse accelerating._

“Are you serious?”

He nodded, hoping it wouldn’t take too much to convince her, but Pryce clearly saw the state he was in. Leaning awkwardly over him, she sent a sharp openhanded slap across his left cheek, wincing as she did so. Of course, she was injured, and it probably hurt her hand or arm. It helped though, the sting firing up nerve endings that had been deadened by the viscosity of sleep.

“One…more,” Thrawn coughed.

This time the strike was harder, and Pryce closed her eyes even before her palm connected with his face. A fortifying flood of adrenaline objected to his lack of retaliation, and that was all he needed. Thrawn cleared his throat as Pryce sat back.

“Thank you. Much better.”

Saying nothing, she nodded.

_Skin flushed, avoiding eye contact, shoulders hunched.  
_

They sat in silence. Thrawn imagined Pryce was likely thinking the same thing: the emdee’s visit meant it had been several hours since they last were tested, which in turn meant they probably were due to fuck again.

“Arihnda…”

She looked up as if dreading the rest of his phrase. It was…unpleasant, he understood, but it didn’t have to be. They had over a standard week left, and Thrawn was certain they could adapt. Damn human modesty and societal sexual taboos that resulted in that distrustful look in her face.

_Bottom lip thrust out, chin protruding, lower eyelids tense, hands flexed._

Guilt. She felt guilty, as much as anything. It had to be addressed. Although understandable, it was pointless. The added stress could also compromise her immune system.

“I am not going to die. And I do not regret my _decision,_ ” he emphasized the word, “to come here.” He didn’t say “rescue you” “come to your aid” or any other phrase that could imply obligation or responsibility on her part. Typically, human psychology was fairly easy to predict, although the Governor of Lothal was more incalculable than most.

_Neck twisting, tense, throbbing in her left temple._

Thrawn held up a hand, anticipating a negation. It was shocking how difficult the simple movement was, but the action itself helped wake up his muscles. “It _was_ my decision.”

“It was _my_ request!”

“And I was free to refuse.”

That stopped her, rebuttal dying on her lips. But then—

“Why _didn’t_ you?” Thrawn opened his mouth to respond, but she asked again, vocal register mounting with each word. “Why?! Why, why, why?! This makes _no sense_ , and you _always_ make sense, Thrawn, don’t deny it! What’s your fucking _strategy_ here?!” Pryce’s head fell to her hands and she curled down further into her outstretched robed thighs, breathing shallow and loud in the room.

The cursed fog of the virus was creeping back at the borders of his awareness. She was upset, distraught even, and as much as he tried to understand, it was difficult for Thrawn to witness, especially given the timing. Exploring the rationale may seem relevant to her, but his physical weakness was proof they didn't have time for this drama.

Pushing off the pillow with effort, Thrawn disconnected the IV from his body, tossing it off the side of the bed. He managed to move closer, keeping his distance from Pryce's cast. Leaning over, he took her hands from her ears, gripping them tightly. She didn't move, didn't look up.

“It was…” Another cough. “… _you_.”

The instant the justification left his lips, Thrawn recognized the basic and extraordinary truth of it. It explained the relief at her request for his presence, as well as his dismissal of every practical reason to refuse and leave Pryce to her fate. It had always been more than merely assisting an incapacitated ally, more than a foolhardy demonstration of heroism. He couldn’t be without her, and trusted no one else with the task. And his reward was her suspicion and remorse.

_Breath halts, slows. Head lifts. Eyes wet, wary._

“No strategy.” Thrawn focused on holding her eyes and fingers. He read the questions therein, the doubt. “I would not abandon you.”

_Deep inhale, fever climbing, eyes reddened._

“You could have sent someone else.” Her accusation was desperate and argumentative, begging contradiction.

She looked down at their joined hands, then pulled free as if scalded. Almost immediately, his own fingers began to tremble. Pryce’s expression remained a mystery to him, but Thrawn knew ultimately it didn’t matter what she thought. If she regretted her choice, she still had no alternative to him. 

Pryce’s eyes shone bright with uncharacteristic distress, a manic light pouring from them, primed to refute and resist. The truth had failed to reach her, and logic would do the same; Pryce had discarded reason like an outgrown uniform, unproductive guilt blinding her to his words, his admission. She wanted him to continue the dispute, even though she’d already rejected the resolution. It was written in the lines of her forehead, the tightness at her lips’ edges. Her misery was fierce and beautiful, and Thrawn had never seen anything like it, never confronted an enemy armed with such weapons. Waves of dizziness menaced his concentration, but he tried again.

“I was selfish, Arihnda.”

Thrawn struggled for calm, wanting to shake some sense into her. Pryce was too stubborn, and would continue to fight, looking for some way to keep the blame for herself entirely. 

~~

Thrawn was shaking—small tremors obviously some manifestation of the seriousness of infection. The sight terrified her, so much that Pryce almost didn’t register his response.

_Selfish?_

Pryce felt the word strike her physically, hearing criticism of her own motives. Then the adjective—and its context—resolved. 

Selfish. _Thrawn_ being selfish… by coming himself. By not assigning a random Imperial stooge to fuck her back to health. He wouldn’t leave her, wouldn’t let anyone else—

Thrawn had rescued her from certain death, as the cliché went. Ultimately, the reasons were immaterial, even if his answer just now had made her chest contract and throat tighten. She believed him. She always believed everything he said, resolution and certainty hallmarks of Thrawn’s delivery. He was unfailing in his convictions, and she couldn’t find a reason for a lie now, when they had nothing to lose.

His hands clung to one another to stop the shakes, the sight also halting her revelation. What the hell were they thinking? Why were they having this conversation now, when death was coursing through their blood, hoping for a foolish, fatal delay?

 _It’s **your** fault,_ an insidious voice taunted, trickling like poison in her brain. **_You_** _started this stupid discussion, **you’re** killing him with your pathetic guilty conscience, focusing on all the wrong things._

Thrawn was so close to her, his body feverish and flushed, eyes heavy and dull, but his declaration still hung in the air.

“I’m sorry,” she said. Sorry for her stupid questions, and sorry for ignoring what they both needed. Bending forward, Pryce fumbled for his shoulders, gripping them and finding his lips. They tasted like unbridled relief—a summer storm, bringing heat and rain and _life_. 

“I’m sorry,” she echoed, glad he was already naked, already moving atop her, accepting her cue for what it was. Desperation overtook all other emotions as Pryce collapsed onto her back, letting Thrawn arrange their limbs. They couldn’t afford to delay again; she couldn’t waste time seeking reassurances that ultimately were meaningless. They couldn’t sleep without an alarm, a schedule, or a plan.

“No more apologies,” Thrawn murmured, lips leaving her neck and hovering above her mouth. Pryce wriggled beneath his chest, her hand circling his cock to guide him. Thrawn sank into her with a sigh, and lay, motionless, for several seconds.

Her fingers slid over his flexed ass, along the ridges of his spine, a tactile appreciation of the muscles and smoothness of skin. Shifting her hips, resisting the press of his weight pushing her into the bed, Pryce hinged up to take him deeper. She moved her palms over his shoulder blades, resting them behind his neck.

Thrawn propped himself up on his forearms, kissing her chin. She had the distinct impression he’d been aiming for her lips and missed. This deadly virus was a potent drug, both catalyst and inhibitor to sex. Pryce ran her hands over his scalp, traced the shapes of his ears before framing his face and then missing his mouth herself when she raised her neck to meet it.

“This…” he spoke slowly, body still, and Pryce thrust her hips again to assist. Nodding, he began to move inside her. “Yes. It will not be—”

“Doesn’t matter,” she groaned. Was he really concerned about his performance? His orgasm was the main thing—hers was not only optional, but unlikely. “Hurry.” The ache of penetration was welcome now, a doubt-destroying absolution. They would not die, this imperfect communion was their deliverance.

“Yes,” Thrawn repeated, and rested his head on the bed, cheek grazing her ear.

~~

The lean muscles of Pryce’s arms squeezed Thrawn’s sides as he drove faster. There was no complaint from her lips, no feeling of resistance this time. The fact that his brain had awoken while his body was still half-asleep was frustrating, but he silently vowed he’d make it up to her.

Her breasts were crushed between them, but lifting more than one limb at a time seemed too difficult. It was infuriating to be so enervated, for energy to be rationed, directed where it was most necessary. Turning his neck and finding his lips level with her earlobe, Thrawn realized how foolish it had been to pretend they could control the circumstances of ‘treatment.’ Unless they fucked on a stricter schedule, they would be doomed to this lethargic coupling that satisfied neither.

The abbreviated crescendo of his climax approached, and this time Thrawn didn’t try to bring Pryce with him. He lacked the motor skills, time, and stamina. With a hard thrust to her center, it was all he could do to raise his head and find her lips as he came. The orgasm was grim and unsatisfying, rippling from his body to hers. 

Pryce’s kiss felt different now, more hesitant than even the first time. As their mouths separated, Thrawn rested his feverish forehead on hers, feeling the heat of their breaths mingling, savoring the cool press of her skin. He closed his eyes, imagining the strain of infection in the tainted blood rushing in his veins.

“We must…” he whispered.

“…do this more often,” she finished for him. “I know.”

She gave no sign of wanting him to leave, but Thrawn felt his own limbs like the dead weight they were. He straightened his arms to withdraw, dipping his head to taste her mouth a last time. Their lips touched when Pryce pressed up, offering herself like a sacrifice, hands pulling him down closer and deepening the kiss.

This was no longer a prelude to sex, as their other kisses had been—it bore the mark of a covenant, a pledge of survival. Pryce’s tongue was slow and sweet, her arms strong. Thrawn lowered once more, allowing himself to rest between her legs, enclosed in her embrace, a little longer.

~~

Contentment wasn’t the right word for this, but it wasn’t far off. Whatever Pryce was feeling lived in the same neighborhood, fired the same synapses. Thrawn’s short hair, damp and sleek, streamed soft between her fingers. The entire scenario was atrocious and destructive, but here, in the aftermath, she would gladly freeze time and enjoy the emptiness in her head and the heat of the man in her arms. The realization made her uneasy. Too much was revealed by touch. Pryce let her hands fall to her sides.

Her lungs hitched, crowded and uncomfortable, and she coughed. Thrawn slid to her left as if the sound had expelled him from the bed. He managed to avoid all contact with her legs as he got to his feet, walking unsteadily to the refresher.

Pryce stared at the starship’s roof above, unable to think. It wasn’t for lack of trying. There were things they needed to discuss, things she hoped to tell him, and things she wanted him to explain. But time was at once stagnant and fleeting—she couldn’t even remember how long it had been since her rescue. The sense of stasis was bizarre, uneven, but acceptance was the only option.

The chilly texture of a refrigerated nutrient bulb pressed between her fingers signaled Thrawn’s return. Grateful for his thoughtfulness—she was thirsty—Pryce started to push up. He helped lift her to a sitting position. The difference in this lethargy and her earlier exhaustion was marked—she was tired, but not as drained. This tiredness felt more natural—sleep was its solution. Raising the bulb to her lips, Pryce drank deeply, swishing the sugary liquid around her teeth. 

Thrawn wore a robe, a dark indigo color, unlike the white of hers, although the style wasn’t dissimilar. The oddity of the choice was noted, but it seemed like too much effort to attempt to comment on something so trivial. She'd never seen one like it, but why shouldn’t medcenter robes come in other colors?

When she was done, Thrawn took the bulb from her hand and replaced it with a towel. Pryce fought the desire to lie back down. Yes, she was sticky and messy, but an actual sonic would be preferable to cleaning up here. There was a question in his expression, and she shook her head, waving away any offer of assistance before he could formulate one.

“Four more hours,” Thrawn said then. Pryce blinked at the pronouncement, not understanding. “Your cast,” he explained the non-sequitur, “can be removed in four hours.”

“That will make things easier.”

“Yes.”

The tension was back. Pryce had had enough of it, wanting to scream to just break up the treacly weight of silence. Instead, she grit her teeth and wiped some sweat from her neck. Back to facing reality, and to continue their conversation from before, when they had decided not to just accept the circumstances, but to make the best of them.

“Now it’s your turn,” she started, “for telling me your preferences.”

“Did we finish discussing yours?” Thrawn’s eyebrow lifted, but Pryce saw through the attempt to divert.

“Probably not, but let’s talk about you.” She indicated her broken leg. “Like you said, we won’t be limited in a few hours.”

“We should not wait that long,” he remarked, “to fuck again.” The profanity from his lips made hers respond with an awkward smile, generated by muscles and nerves she couldn’t control.

“So what’s your recovery time, then?” Pryce tried to sound flippant and failed. Thrawn seemed to consider, not understanding her intent was facetious. “Sithspit, Thrawn, stop trying to change the subject! Tell me what you like. Favorite position? Wildest fantasy?” The eyebrow moved higher on his forehead.

Crossing her arms, Pryce pursed her lips and waited. Thrawn ran a hand through his hair, something she hadn't ever seen. His cut was regulation short, so the result was more spiky than tousled, and gave him a distinctly casual look. A beat later, he leaned, half-sitting, next to her on the bed.

“You have not had an orgasm,” he began. The lightness she’d attempted to maintain disintegrated, replaced by something sharp and defensive. So he was _actually_ going to attack her with that now, to deflect? Pryce wanted to punch him. How could she come in this situation?! What woman could? 

Apparently Thrawn saw the daggers in her eyes, holding up a palm to wordlessly ask for her indulgence. “I mention this because much of my sexual pleasure is tied to my partner’s. It can be an inconvenient psychological block,” Thrawn shrugged. “So to answer your questions…”

Pryce held his stare, but it wasn’t easy. Thrawn’s eyes seemed to be reading some secrets written on the back of her skull, their glow intensifying. 

“Recovery time has never been an issue. I feel confident that whenever requirements dictate, I am capable of performing.” Thrawn’s lips tilted to the left, halfway between a smirk and a smile. “At least for a certain duration.” 

He lowered the hand, his fingers close to hers on the bed. She wished for a fleeting moment he’d laid them atop instead. “We should implement a regular schedule,” Thrawn went on with his matter-of-fact delivery. “Based upon current observations, every four hours should be sufficient to satisfy the biological requirements of the virus. We can adjust as our conditions improve.”

“I was _joking_ about recovery time Thrawn,” Pryce interrupted, exasperated. Seeing his face, she amended. “But good to know.”

Thrawn nodded and continued his answers, undeterred by her failed humor.

“As mentioned, I would prefer to accommodate _your_ preferences, thereby ensuring your orgasm. However,” his eyes glittered a warning as she opened her mouth to scoff, “as I can see that is not the answer you are looking for, I will state that _ttoheti_ is my standard ‘favorite position,’ and should you feel up to a challenge, we might attempt _tun’isbi_.”

Pryce threw up her hands. “And since I’m not fluent in your language, Thrawn, perhaps you could enlighten me as to what the kriff toe-heti and tunnizbee are?”

He smiled, more than just a flicker of amusement in the lines by his eyes.

“Better to demonstrate than explain.”

There was undeniably humor as well as promise in his words, and Pryce found herself smiling back, however improbably.

“Fine,” she sighed dramatically, “when the cast comes off.”

Thrawn nodded, that faint smile still on his lips. “And to your final question…”

Pryce couldn’t even remember what that question had been, distracted by the myriad possibilities of exotic sexual positions that Thrawn could be referring to. She glanced angrily down at her leg. Bad enough to feel stupid and lazy due to illness, but being further incapacitated had only added to the sense of helplessness at her— _their_ , she mentally revised—predicament.

“…I believe the saying in Basic is ‘you tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine.’”

The levity was a cool breeze slicing through the tension of earlier, and Pryce laughed, remembering the question: his wildest fantasy. 

~~

Pryce laughed, the sound perhaps the most concrete evidence yet that they would survive this. Thrawn trusted science, but his own rapid decline had tested his faith. It wouldn’t have been the first time the Empire lied or exaggerated results in an official report, after all.

_Improved color, high temperature, pupils contracted to regular size._

Pryce still had some reluctance or shame concerning her own failure to climax, and that was frustrating, particularly since it was high on his list of things to remedy. His words had been sincere, but apparently the governor wasn’t comfortable with the topic. Still, as implied, once her cast came off, more creative and less sensitive methods could be explored.

It was undeniably arousing—to consider the possibilities—and Thrawn felt his own pulse accelerate as his imagination helpfully provided a slideshow of potential as he leaned closer, enjoying her amusement.

“Perhaps mine was simply to bed a Grand Admiral,” she teased, sliding her legs to the end of the mattress. Thrawn stood to assist, assuming the sonic was her destination. He picked her up with ease as Pryce settled comfortably against his chest.

“Surely if that were the case you would have seduced me long ago,” Thrawn replied, shifting her in his arms as he walked to the refresher.

_Slight flush to cheeks, heartbeat erratic, eyes lowered._

Thrawn was unsure if he’d embarrassed or flattered her, or if the heightened color was a sign they were due for another fuck. He decided the remedy was the same, in all cases. Setting Pryce on her feet, he turned the controls to a warm setting and began untying his robe.

“And perhaps mine,” he continued, matching her airy tone, “is bathing with an Imperial governor.”

As the words left his lips, Thrawn wondered if responding to her tease with flirtation was a mistake. Earlier, he would have guessed that a change of their doom-struck quarantine ambiance was as futile as unlikely.

_Color heightened, eyes averted, a flash of teeth, lines framing her lips, fingers pausing at her robe._

She _was_ embarrassed. Or flattered. Or both. In any event, apparently it was not too late to charm.

Pleased at the reaction he’d already incited, Thrawn tugged the intricate knot on Pryce’s robe loose and pushed it from her shoulders. He stepped into the stall, lifting her to face him under the chemical spray. When Pryce placed her hands on his shoulders for balance, he ducked his head and pulled her into a hard kiss. Hands explored, bodies met, and the poorly-maintained sonic crackled in syncopation to her cries when she came.


	6. Lysis

_Quarantine Day Three_

The emdee unit’s ministrations didn’t wake him right away, a bad sign. To have his reflexes so affected by the infection was further proof of its virulence. Thrawn opened one eye to witness his own outstretched arm held immobile as a sample was drawn. He dragged himself to a sitting position as it moved on to Pryce, asleep at his side. She also didn’t stir as her viral load was checked. 

Evaluating his balance and stability, Thrawn decided he felt well enough to stand, and followed the droid to its improvised laboratory in the shuttle’s bow.

“Good morning, Grand Admiral.” Thrawn gave a nod of acknowledgment in return, never one to feel social niceties were necessary with droids. “If you’ll allow me a moment, I will have the test results to you quite soon.”

Thrawn leaned against the wall, a sudden craving for breakfast, perhaps brought on by the emdee’s greeting, hitting his stomach with a pointed emptiness. When was the last time he’d eaten?

Like a spice junkie taking a security forces sobriety test, Thrawn plodded to the far side of the room, punching a request into the food synthesizer. Less than a minute later, the invigorating smell of caf hit his nostrils. On impulse, he repeated the order for Pryce, and then chose a generic “Capital Breakfast” option. The screen informed him the meal would be ready in three standard minutes and would he like anything else.

“Sir.”

The emdee was at his elbow. Already tired from the minor exertion, Thrawn sat at the one table in the room, then looked up to their silver medic.

“May I provide you with an update on the Firrearrean virus then?”

“Please.”

“Governor Pryce’s viral load has diminished a token amount, still close to 400,000.”

“What is it precisely?” Thrawn snapped. Estimates were unhelpful.

“It is precisely 382,431 point 5731—”

“That is sufficient,” Thrawn cut off the decimals, taking a sip of the caf, feeling the burn on his tongue with dim awareness. Somnolent senses combined with a thready sense of impatience in his chest, a convergence that was as rare as it was destabilizing.

“Very good, sir. And yours is precisely 345,237 point 662…” The emdee paused. “Shall I continue?”

“No.” He drank some caf again, more gingerly. To Thrawn's mind, it was still too early to draw any conclusions from these statistics, but it was encouraging that both had dropped. There seemed to be no real pattern as to whose was lowered more per encounter. “Anything else noteworthy in the analysis?”

The droid sat, uninvited, across from Thrawn and hinged forward as if about to impart a secret.

“Why yes sir, there are many fascinating developments. I have continued my research. Governor Pryce’s serology indicates the nascent presence of antibodies, while yours does not. Additionally, her blood pressure, while not yet requiring medical intervention, is quite high for someone of her age and physique. Her progesterone is borderline deficient, also unusual but not entirely uncommon in human females in high stress careers or situations, so I would not recommend medication quite yet, given she is currently diagnosed with a terminal illness and aware of the fact.”

Thrawn frowned, betraying his opinion of these details. How useful for the droid to take environmental factors into consideration.

“Your blood panel is rather more confusing to interpret, Grand Admiral. I would like to perform some karyotyping to get a better sense of your species’ typical hormonal spectrum. I confess my databanks are quite inadequate for Chiss chromosome analysis. I can say your blood shows elevated levels of a substance almost equivalent to human testosterone, but also presents extreme oxidative stress that would be of great concern to most species. Yet I am unclear as to how Chiss free radicals—”

“Thank you,” Thrawn interrupted. “I appreciate the thoroughness of your analysis.”

“Yes sir.” The droid was miffed at being cut off, but remained deferential. “Should I keep you apprised of my nosological findings? Due to your remarkably slow decline, it may be that we are not at all dealing with Firrearrean plague, but some variation on its pathology.”

“Enter all data and analysis into the ship’s medical log,” Thrawn said, hearing the binary beep that meant breakfast was served. “It will be preserved there for transmission prior to decontamination of the shuttle.”

Of course there would be no preservation of the data, but Thrawn had elected to keep the droids ignorant of their fate until necessary. He’d heard too many stories about rogue units attempting reprogramming when confronted with disintegration, and despite the restraining bolts on both, he didn’t completely trust Imperial technology. 

“Bring the food tray to my quarters.”

“Very good sir. There is one more thing to mention…”

Thrawn stood, a caf in each hand, and waited.

“When I removed the Governor’s cast this morning, I confirmed all fractures have completely healed. There will be some muscular weakness. A common side effect of rapidheal plasticast is mild atrophy, but all should return to normal with regular use.”

The news didn’t surprise Thrawn so much as the fact that he hadn’t noticed the absence of Pryce’s cast when he got out of the bed. His observational skills were certainly suffering as a result of this disease.

“Excellent,” Thrawn replied, the word apparently interpreted by the emdee as praise directed at it specifically, and it seemed in better humor as it led the way back to the bedroom with the food tray.

~~

Since her ordeal began, light had been the most unpleasant and common reason for wakefulness, but right now, Pryce smelled caf. Caf—that familiar, wonderful, fortifying drink. The scent was strong and inviting, and she smiled, wondering if she was still dreaming, until the accompanying heat from the cup was conducted to her skin by proximity.

Fully awake now, eyes still closed, she kept the grin on her lips, stretching lazily in the bed. 

“Good morning.”

Pryce had always liked the Grand Admiral’s timbre, found it soothing. His exotically-accented Basic and silken tone, veiled with vaguely foreign syntax, had never failed to secretly charm her. Still, hearing it first thing when she awoke was the opposite of calming.

“Good morning,” she managed, opening her eyes, wiping away the sleep.

There was a food tray on the bed, and Thrawn was holding a steaming mug in her direction. She sat, feeling almost weightless. Something was different.

Well, everything was different, of course. Their lives had been completely consumed with the plague, and therefore, with one another. But Pryce remembered the night before, how Thrawn had accompanied her to the sonic, then stayed. Her chest constricted as the events replayed in her mind. 

His ministrations—originally masked as cleansing assistance—had rapidly and effortlessly made her climax. She had been ready to scream at him for manipulating her, about to protest his uninvited demonstration of mastery over her sexual response as chauvinistic and unnecessary, but then he had fucked her right there, in the sonic, immediately invalidating her arguments. It was one thing for Thrawn to bring her to orgasm in preparation for sex—that she couldn’t question, couldn’t analyze and agonize over. It would have been quite another as if he had done it altruistically, merely for her pleasure or his own ego, without sex as a second act. But he hadn’t, and it made the submission to carnal bliss easier to accept. After all, they _had_ to keep having sex, and she had to be ready for him. Indisputable facts.

But in the sonic, the mood then had been different, lighter, and the memory made her stomach flip now, once, then twice again as she accepted the caf from his fingers.

“I’m starving,” she said, taking a sip and eyeing the breakfast he’d brought her.

“I thought so-called “real” food would be welcome,” he commented, sliding back into the bed at her side. “Although of course this is from the synthesizer.” The ease of it, the apparent normalcy of this scene, was jarring. Pryce gripped her caf tighter, far from relaxed.

“Thank you.” She reached for a Skuhlian bunn, dipping it into the mug before taking a bite. Synthed, yes, but a fair approximation of the pastry. “Delicious.”

Thrawn reached for one himself, and Pryce stupidly realized the tray wasn’t for her. Or at least not only for her. It didn’t look like enough for two, but she supposed they could always get more. Why was she even wasting energy thinking about whether or not he’d meant to share? She chewed and soaked the bunn a little longer before the next bite.

“Any updates?” she asked through sips of caf. He’d clearly been up a while. 

In response, Thrawn settled back a little closer, his bicep leaning against her shoulder, and set down the bunn he’d been eating.

“Our viral loads are not significantly altered, but nonetheless lower than the last analysis.”

“That’s good.”

“And,” he took a drink from his cup, “in case it was not apparent, your leg and foot are completely healed.” His chin arced once towards the foot of the bed, drawing her gaze.

Pryce stopped eating, staring at the outline of her leg beneath the sheet. He was right. She hadn’t noticed, but of course _this_ was why she felt differently this morning. With her free hand, she whipped the covers off, almost upsetting the tray in the process, and stared at the pale skin revealed. Surprisingly, there were only two faint bruises—the cast had also helped her body reabsorb leaked blood from contusions more rapidly.

The caf in her hand was forgotten as Pryce experimentally bent her knee, drawing it to her chest. She braced herself for pain in the thigh or joint. But nothing, just some stiffness. She rotated her ankle next, separating and pointing her toes. Everything was truly healed. Unable to keep the smile from her face, she looked to Thrawn. He too was smiling, watching her with an air of satisfaction that made her self-conscious. Returning the leg to the mattress, she jerked the sheet back over it.

It wasn’t hard to guess what they both were thinking. Protracted abstinence was to be avoided. And now they were not physically limited except by the virus itself.

Thrawn finished his drink in one draught, setting the mug to the side. Although he said nothing, Pryce imagined impatience in the movement. Her leg was healed, and once again it was time to fuck. She closed her eyes, a surge of anxiety cramping her stomach, squeezing her lungs. It was ridiculous to worry about this; it wasn’t as if Thrawn could complain about her performance in any case, but—

The thought was severed by Thrawn removing the tray from the bed and placing it on the floor, confirming her suspicions. Desperate to recover some of the levity from the night before, Pryce drained the rest of her caf and placed the cup in his waiting hand. Wracking her brain, she unearthed what seemed the right word.

“Let me guess,” she said, “toe-heti?” Her reward was a brief chuckle from the man opposite. “Does it involve actual toes?”

She knew she was being silly, but Thrawn didn’t seem to mind. Good. Silly was better than serious. 

“ _Ttoheti_ is certainly possible now,” he answered, pulling all the covers from the bed in one melodramatic movement, like a magician’s reveal. “But I thought,” he continued, practically slithering between her legs, head level with her crotch, “we might begin with _k’ta ch’in’he’ah_.”

“And just what in Stalbrigion hells is that, Thrawn?”

Before replying, his hands gripped her ankles, sliding them towards her ass until her knees were at forty-five degrees. She blushed, guessing where this was going. 

Wriggling a little closer, he smirked. “The literal translation, Arihnda, is ‘flower eating.’”

She was still marvelling at the smirk when he placed his lips high up on her inner thigh, the tip of his tongue tracing an invisible, drawn-out path on the soft skin. By the time his mouth landed where she wanted it, she was already halfway to orgasm. Thrawn used his lips to suck, his teeth to tease, and his tongue to spear. Every time she thought she could anticipate his movements, he proved her wrong. His oral technique was insane, she decided: hauling her roughly to heights, releasing her cruelly, letting her climb again, and then dropping her a few rungs until he decided she was ready to ascend once more.

Squirming and gasping, Pryce concluded she could possibly die from pleasure instead of the plague. Thrawn locked his arms across her pelvis to keep her still; her feet were planted on his shoulders as she twitched under his mouth. Just as she thought she was going to kick him away, kill him, or both, he buried his head in her cunt a final time, permitting the long-overdue orgasm to blaze through her core. It travelled in alternating shivers and flames along her nerves, a submersion of pleasure that was closer to delirium than ecstasy.

Before Pryce could recover, Thrawn had glided to his knees, her newly healed calf sliding easily over his shoulders to dangle down his back. Hips were raised high as Thrawn angled her further; her back left the bed, weight resting on her shoulder blades. Folding over her, compressing her thighs, he kissed her hard, slamming his cock home at the same instant.

~~

Admittedly, he hadn’t been thinking of the past, hadn’t taken into account the previous pain he’d caused her. No sooner had Thrawn driven deep than he paused, fearful at his own mindless enthusiasm causing a repeat of their first sexual encounter. Certainly this position allowed for far deeper penetration than before.

_Brow tight, jaw slack, teeth parted._

No pain indicated, only surprise, desire. She was enjoying this. His breathing calmed, and Thrawn lowered his chest to cover hers. His face was still wet, the flavor of her pleasure on his tongue. Pryce met his kiss eagerly, no resistance or restraint as he tested the extent of her flexibility.

He pushed deeper and began to move. A shriek left her lips and he paused, but Pryce reddened, shaking her head.

“It’s good,” she breathed. “Really.”

_Eyes wide, pulse fast, neck tensed, respiration shallow._

Assured, Thrawn nodded and straightened. Perhaps less of an extreme angle would be advisable. Supporting her ass with his hands, he withdrew and then continued fucking her, setting a steady pace with more shallow thrusts. Pryce’s breasts were tempting, moving with his rhythm, and he dipped his head to suck on the hardened tips. Any hesitation dissolved as her fingers smoothed into his hair, her back arching to encourage, and rhythmic cries escaped her mouth in time with each penetration.

As concentration replaced concern, Thrawn paid closer attention to Pryce’s responses, when she keened or withdrew from hypersensitivity, what breathless sighs his hands could elicit, where inside her body his cock could drag the sweetest, drawing out her pleasure and his own.

She had stamina, and her obvious enthusiasm fed his, bringing Thrawn far more quickly than intended to the precipice of orgasm. He slowed, wanting to make her climax uncontrollably again, wanting to see her writhe and savor the moans of rapture from her lips.

But Pryce calmed as he did, her limbs relaxing atop his muscles, fingers loosening against his scalp. The result was an unplanned feeling of intimacy, the pressure of her inner walls like an embrace, their kisses evolving, tongues moving from frenzied battle to intoxicated waltz. An unfortunate side effect to this intermission was the virus’ dangerous lethargy threatened, too soon, too powerful.

“Come again,” Thrawn whispered, the wish more like a command than he’d intended. His cock stayed deep as his hips stilled.

“Make me,” she sighed back, a dare. A smile brightened her eyes, arms tightening around him.

Thrawn arched an eyebrow, a welcome and much-needed rush of adrenaline infusing his blood at Pryce's reaction. He wouldn’t let himself collapse, he swore, not until she was begging for mercy.

He kissed her again, his mouth demanding, a challenge accepted.

Pulling her legs from his shoulders, Thrawn pushed under her knees until she was bent in half, ankles practically at her ears. Now it was Pryce who cocked an eyebrow, but made no comment.

“ _Ttoheti_ ,” Thrawn explained, shoving hard and deep before she could react. Maybe it was the virus shortening his performance, or maybe it was simply that he was too close to his own peak, but as Thrawn fucked her, he knew he would fail at the task. Her short nails trailed down his chest, her generous breasts shook with each thrust, and her abbreviated cries—so different than he would have ever imagined the Governor of Lothal sounding—made him lose the fight embarrassingly quickly.

~~

Pryce bit down on a groan of dismay as Thrawn came, not too soon, not really—she’d been heading towards raw—but had hoped, stupidly, that he would be able to fulfill the promise of his own directive.

It wasn’t that it hadn’t satisfied. Pryce had forgotten her leg was ever broken, probably would have had trouble remembering her own name as Thrawn fucked her mind completely blank. When he’d gone down on her, although she felt uncomfortably exposed, she’d promised herself not to resist, to let him have his way as he had in the refresher. Despite being skeptical of his profession that his partner’s pleasure was instrumental for his own, it wasn’t difficult to see the benefit to acceptance, even if Thrawn was lying. So long as he fucked her after, she had reasoned, it wouldn’t be condescending, or a power trip. Foreplay was necessary, after all, and why complain about it or examine complicated motivations when they had so many other problems?

The oral sex had already resulted in the best orgasm of her life before he’d tossed her legs over his shoulders and fucked her like a turbohammer. She was a spectator in her own body, feverish with sickness and sex, oversensitive and overstimulated, and nothing else mattered but the stretch of him, the press of his lips, the taste of his mouth, the strange scent of his sweat mixing with hers. The cock that had been the source of so much pain earlier now was exquisitely testing her limits, so tight she could feel each vein, each ridge lining his shaft. Its curve seemed designed for her body, and when he folded her in two, crashed into her from beneath, that pressure, that angle on exactly the right spot made her lightheaded. No wonder this was his favorite position. It was hers too, now.

Thrawn winced as he pulled out. Her legs, cramped from so long overhead, came to a rest on either side of his knees. Moving backwards on the mattress, not disturbing her spread-eagle pose, Thrawn walked to the refresher. 

Pryce felt stupid just lying there, so struggled upright, feeling a sharp and pleasant ache between her legs. She’d been very wet at first, sloppily so, but still was unaccustomed to his size. Fumbling for her robe on the floor, she left it hanging open and leaned down to grab a lipana berry from the breakfast tray, just as Thrawn returned.

And with him, awkwardness. Stars, how long would this continue? He’d just fucked her senseless, surely they could relax a little around one another now? Pryce didn’t know if the vibe was her fault or his, but she was sick of it. Plucking another berry from the bunch, she tossed it at him. He weaved to the left and caught it with his mouth, making hers drop open in surprise. Admittedly, she’d already seen the Grand Admiral in far more unlikely scenarios than she’d ever dreamed, but catching food like a Sedrian was perhaps the most bizarre yet.

He smiled at her reaction, walking over and snatching the rest of the berries off the tray. 

“What was that?!”

“Skill,” he said, holding a berry before her lips. Pryce balked. She wanted them to be comfortable, but was he going to actually try to feed her now? Leaning away, she took it from his fingers and crushed it in her teeth.

“Impressive,” she replied. The sweet lipana juice trickled down her throat, making her feel ill. Maybe she should have stuck with bunns.

“Arihnda,” Thrawn said, voice lower, making her wary. She faced him in response, waiting. “I—”

Something about his aura made her interrupt. “Don’t you dare apologize for coming, for kriff’s sake, Thrawn. That’s the point, remember?”

“Yes, however—”

“No howevers. Just drop it.”

His eyes narrowed and she could tell she’d annoyed him. Instead of arguing though, which probably wouldn’t have gone well for either of them, he reached over and tied her robe. She followed his movements, elegant blue fingers wrapping the wide belt in a sophisticated twist. It was the same as earlier, she recognized the pattern now.

“Fancy knot.”

~~

Thrawn’s patience started to crumble, and only the fact that he felt better than he had in the last eight hours gave him the strength to redirect the simmering energy beneath his skin, tying Pryce’s robe rather than sitting her in a chair and forcing her attention. It was counterproductive to avoid topics that could improve their situation, but she seemed determined to so do.

Pryce's comment was, therefore, unexpected. He answered, wondering if offering some personal information would push her further away or bring her closer. And no longer certain which he preferred.

“A traditional knot to encourage healing in my culture.” Thrawn considered, searching for something more to offer. “A reminder of home, if a bit superstitious.”

_Heartbeat accelerating, legs unsteady._

“It’s…pretty.” Pryce’s gaze lowered, and stayed down, her fingers tracing the loops he had made.

Thrawn ate another berry, waiting for her to look up. When she did not, he tightened his own robe. 

“We should celebrate your—our healing thus far.”

That got her attention.

_Eyes narrowed, brows lowered._

“Thought we just did.” 

Thrawn could not figure her out. There was not the slightest logic to Pryce’s reactions. She had gone from teasing, to passionate embraces, to throwing fruit at him, to refusing to talk to him, to _this_ expression—something combustible and dangerous in her stare, defensive in her tone. Perhaps that was part of what drew him to her—the fact that no matter how well he could predict sentient behavior, Pryce was consistently unpredictable. 

“I meant a more…” he paused, searching for a word “conventional celebration. Food, drink.” He gestured towards the exit. “I think we both could eat?”

_Pupils widening, forehead relaxing, pulse stabilizing._

“I could eat a bantha,” she admitted, stepping to his side and stealing the last berry from his fingers.

He smiled faintly, pressing the door controls and waiting for her to lead the way. Both of them were no longer stumbling, able to move unassisted. Thrawn wondered what tomorrow’s testing would reveal.

~~

_ Quarantine Day Four _

“Governor, you are astonishingly improved,” the emdee proclaimed the next day in the small kitchen area. Pryce and Thrawn were eating a lunch of nuna bacon, Revwien lettuce, and Lothalian tomato sandwiches, both having awakened an appetite for “real food,” however synthesized, over nutrient bulbs and drips.

“Viral load of,” it glanced at Thrawn nervously, “228,876.034. While the Grand Admiral,” it looked again to the Chiss, voice modulator deepening to deliver grievous tidings, “has worsened. 363,066.226 parts per millilitre, sir. I’m very sorry.”

Pryce scowled at the hunk of wires and metal. That made no sense at all. How had hers dropped so drastically? And Thrawn didn’t look any worse. He looked better, in fact, his skin tone less blotchy, his red eyes sharp. 

“You’ve made a mistake,” she said. “We _both_ are getting better. It has to go down for both of us!”

“It is not clear exactly how the process works,” Thrawn interjected, before the droid could speak. “For all we know, the next time you may rise and I fall by a larger factor, until proportionally we both are similar once more.”

“Yessir,” the droid chimed in, clearly wanting to contribute. “And I do have some good news, I believe.”

The afflicted turned to him expectantly.

“Yes,” he stated. “I have been investigating, processing, and analyzing all available files on the Firrerrean plague victims. From all the digital hospital records that were publicly available prior to the blackout. Of course none of them decreased in viral load throughout their infection.”

The emdee said this last accusingly, perhaps because late yesterday Thrawn had decided to explain their sexual treatment for the plague. While unimpressed with the “experiment,” the emdee had admitted the progression of their declines had an unusual pathology, one he would not have predicted.

“However, there is evidence that a viral load of 30,000 or less is asymptomatic and non-fatal. There was an instance of two Firrerrean refugees found off-world, illegal fugitives from the quarantine. Both were in excellent health, one with a recorded viral load of 28,098 and the other with 29,983. They were studied by medical authorities and never developed nor transmitted the plague.”

Thrawn raised an eyebrow, obviously interested in this news. 

“What happened to them?” Pryce also wanted to know. This information had not been in the classified file she’d scanned, although she supposed the medical files were far more boring and complete.

“The virus' concentration continued to diminish without medical intervention. After reaching less than one part per millilitre, they were observed for six months in isolation. Thereafter, the subjects were destroyed by order of the Ministry of Health for the good of the galactic public after tests determined they were no longer carriers and would not die of the plague.” The droid sounded unhappy about this turn of events, but Pryce supposed it made sense. The Empire needed to keep its secrets, after all.

“Were they a couple? Romantically involved?”

The question came from Thrawn, causing Pryce to pivot in his direction. An interesting question, with strange phrasing. Romantically? Is that what he thought of their situation, what they were doing almost every four hours like clockwork?

The droid made a little humming noise and shook its head. “No, Grand Admiral. Both subjects were male and captured in separate instances.”

Relief washed over her like a gust of fresh air. This would not be their fate. They had the “approved” cure, the one that no one knew about, and the sanction of the Emperor himself. No executions awaited them.

“Thank you,” Thrawn said, waving the emdee away. 

“You are welcome sir, madam,” it tutted. “See you in a few hours.”

As it bustled away, Pryce sighed. She hated these testing periods, but now, knowing Thrawn was getting worse, the ever-present guilt expanded in her chest. 

“We should go to bed,” she said to him. “It makes no sense that you’re doing so badly while I’m feeling halfway to normal.”

“Finish your lunch,” Thrawn returned mildly, his demeanor entirely too unconcerned. “It has only been an hour.”

Annoyed, Pryce glared at the half-eaten sandwich on her plate, no longer hungry. 

“Don’t treat me like a child! And stop acting like it’s no problem for your blood to be so…” she stumbled over the phrase, looking for the right word. “So…so _polluted_ while mine is clearing up. Maybe…”

She trailed off, trying to think what they were doing wrong. Thrawn was definitely a fan (as was she) of ‘flower eating.’ What if that was giving him some sort of double dose, as he encountered her sexual fluids twice, with tongue and cock? She had returned the favor a couple times, but it definitely was an uneven division.

Dammit, she _was_ still hungry though. Pryce angrily took another bite of the sandwich, furious at Thrawn for his silence and rectitude. If she had figured out oral sex as a possible cause, surely he had done the same. Yet he said nothing.

“Maybe…” she tried again, swallowing a mouthful of bacon. The therm-zapped pseudo-grain toast was delicious, and she decided she would finish the sandwich after all. Frequent sex was really speeding up her metabolism.

“Maybe it’s _k’ta ch’in’he’ah,_ ” she muttered, managing not to blush. “Let’s just stop for a couple days.”

Thrawn had polished off his meal and took a drink of water, tilting his head as if appraising her words visually. Pryce shifted uncomfortably in her chair, annoyed but resolute.

Then he smiled—a real smile, eyes crinkling at the edges. “Your pronunciation is excellent.” 

Pryce felt stunned; Thrawn's approval carried force, holding her to the spot. She didn't know why the praise hit so hard, feeling an embarrassing heat creep up her cheeks. “Thank you.” She snorted dismissively. “I’ve heard you suggest it enough, that’s for sure.”

“I have not heard you complaining?” The smile stretched wider on his lips, white teeth gleaming.

“Stop grinning like the Hutt that ate the sand gizzard,” she snapped, not really annoyed. It was hard to stay irritated lately, thinking about his tongue inside her body, the way he could tease her clit into sparking fire down to her toes.

“I suppose it is a possibility,” Thrawn admitted, voice betraying no feelings one way or the other. “But I consider it unlikely.”

He stood, crushing his water bulb and reaching for her hand as if inviting her to dance. And, Pryce thought, in a way he was. She took it.

“We shall find alternatives until your theory is disproven,” he continued, pulling her against his chest. The heat in his gaze could have melted the icecaps of Hoth.

“Sithspit Thrawn, anyone would think you _want_ your numbers to get worse just to make me wrong.”

“No, Arihnda,” Thrawn smiled down at her, still maddeningly unperturbed. “I simply like how you taste.”

~~

She could be right, but regardless, Thrawn knew he could not abandon his pursuit of her pleasure. In the last twenty-four hours he’d made a discovery: Arihnda Pryce was a work of art in the throes of orgasm. Her back arched, her narrow hips locked, her thin toes pointed, her heavy breasts trembled, and her wiry neck tilted to the heavens as small, breathy, irresistible cries crowded the air. 

He was addicted to the sight from the first one he’d witnessed in the sonic, and each time mentally recorded new details. Thrawn was currently obsessed with her hands, the variety of their movements. Sometimes she ran them through his hair or spread them along his neck. Other times her nails dug half-moons into his shoulders. This morning, he’d trapped her wrists as he breakfasted between her thighs and watched Pryce's thin fingers flex helplessly in the air as she jerked under his tongue.

Every time, now that the orgasmic drought had ended, she came beautifully, sometimes more than once, gasping. A few times she’d screamed. Her taste flooded his mouth, something bright and silvery—metallic like the steel of her resolve—and dangerously cool, like the breeze before a storm. 

Pryce was delicious.

Thrawn knew her well enough to know she wouldn’t handle being confronted with such personal compliments with grace, especially not in this situation. Any attempts he made to discuss her wants and desires were met with rolled eyes, dismissive slices of hands, or moratoriums on the subject.

So after telling her he liked her flavor, Thrawn ignored her exasperated glare and blush. Tugging her into the bedroom, he bodily tossed her on the bed, eliciting an uncharacteristic giggle.

“What’s gotten into Grand Admiral Thrawn?” Pryce laughed. Thrawn also was enjoying the everyday sounds of her delight. He didn't often try for comic relief, but she seemed amused when he made an attempt.

“Approximately 363,000 parts per millilitre apparently,” Thrawn shrugged out of his robe, “so I am not responsible for my actions.”

_Jaw slack, eyes round, heat centered in genital area, pulse accelerating._

“I’d call you insane but it’s not polite to insult the dying,” she deadpanned, leaving her robe on. She’d learned he liked to take it off himself.

“Your consideration,” Thrawn growled, leaping atop her and pinning her hands above her head, “is noted.”

This time he just used his hand between her legs, but his mouth was busy enough elsewhere that Pryce wasn’t too deprived. Watching her climax propped up alongside, rather than below, was just as rewarding, like seeing a favorite painting from a different perspective. Thrawn kissed her when she came, swallowing her moans, relishing their taste like glacial nectar from Rentor’s frozen southern sea. She scrambled onto all fours after, eyes bright and teasing over her shoulder as she watched him take her from behind.


	7. Assemblage

_ Quarantine Day  _ _ Six _

On the fifth day, there had been a scare. Pryce’s levels spiked by almost 100,000 with no explanation, no corresponding activity to trace the backslide. Yet three hours later (Thrawn had insisted on halving the testing period out of an abundance of caution) her particle concentration had dropped just as drastically as it had risen. Pryce blamed the emdee for a miscalculation and promised dismemberment, to the droid’s consternation. Fortunately, the anomaly did not recur, and by the afternoon of the sixth day, quarantine life had settled into a fairly regular rhythm.

Pryce was coughing less and eating more. And Thrawn, still hosting a higher viral load, had established a predictable pattern—he would be fine, even energetic after sex, then gradually fall into fever and sleepiness on a four hour cycle. The cure was another round—they already knew that—but the progression of disease was blatantly more rapid and debilitating for his species.

In the shipboard late afternoon, lying in bed, luxuriating in the relaxation of the well-fucked, Pryce felt the best she had since the ordeal began. Sex with Thrawn was good. Much better than good. No matter how many times they had done it (and while she was sure he could have enumerated them, she’d lost count), the sex was never monotonous. 

Her most recent orgasm, for example, had approached like a thunderhead over windswept plains. Beautiful and threatening, naturally immense and unnaturally menacing, she had experienced its arrival with awe. Thrawn’s mastery over her sexual responses would have been maddening if it weren’t so satisfying. And he seemed to relish her pleasure without taking credit for it, a delicate balance that no former lover had achieved. She supposed it should be expected, really. Thrawn was meticulous, precise, and dedicated in any task he undertook.

Pryce stretched, feeling as smug as a spoiled tooka as Thrawn’s fingers ghosted across her midriff, settling just below her ribcage.

“Mmm?”

“Mmm.” A nonreply to her nonquestion.

Rolling over to her side, Pryce propped her head on one hand as Thawn’s palm stayed stationary, skating over her hip to her lower back as she tilted closer. She took in the sight—Grand Admiral Thrawn, as implacable and calm as every day since she’d met him, except naked in bed with her. Grinning, Pryce wondered if she could incite an answering smile. It worked, sort of: a slight upturn of his lips, as if he were humoring her more than actually pleased.

“Credit for your thoughts.” She tried to sound disinterested, despite the request. They had been fucking what felt like nonstop, but hadn’t talked much at all. Admittedly, she had been actively avoiding too much analysis of the situation and tacitly forbidden certain topics. It was all overwhelming enough without dissecting the ramifications of their actions.

The involuntary sabbatical from her gubernatorial duties also preyed upon Pryce's mind. She didn’t trust her elected deputy to do anything right, just one reason she hadn’t had a day off in years.

Thrawn’s forehead lined at her words. Maybe he wasn’t prepared to share. She liked the look, the slight wrinkles around his lips adding something to his typically placid expression. Then those radiant eyes scanned her nude body slowly, toe to head, and his fledgling smile broadened, a glimpse of teeth now as he mirrored her position.

“It seems you have no funds available to complete the transaction.”

“Very funny.” Thrawn’s sense of humor was odd, but she liked his attempts. In any case, if he wasn't interested in talking, probably best to shut up. The last thing she wanted was to seem like a needy bedpartner, requiring meaningless chatter or manufactured romance. It would have been nice to feel like things were more normal, though, despite the fact that they were about as far from normal as she could imagine.

Pryce let her elbow collapse on the sheet, returning to her earlier position. Thrawn’s warm fingers corresponded with the motion, a rough slide along her stomach. The skin tingled in his wake, already sensitive from his touch.

“I was thinking about the inadequacy of language, Arihnda.”

Her raised eyebrow at the ceiling conveyed doubt. When he didn’t follow up the thought right away, she craned her neck to look at him: still propped up on one hand, wrist extended, the corded veins lining his flexor muscles flowing like hyperlanes up his forearm.

“The Basic vernacular,” Thrawn continued, “as far as I am aware, lacks any term to describe our current relationship.” The left side of his lips twisted, his eyes stayed steady on hers. “Unless you know one that is not in my vocabulary.”

“And your language has one? Something that covers,” she flapped a hand back and forth between them, then rested it back on her bare thigh, “this exact situation?”

His palm drifted down from her belly, resting atop her fingers. The Grand Admiral was tactile, and the rough texture of his long fingers had become familiar. It felt nice, but also precarious, inviting false stability. Pryce's decadent, feather-light sense of satisfaction disintegrated in a flash as their overlooked reality shoved its way to the front of her brain.

Fucking Thrawn was ephemeral, as impermanent as it was necessary. She wouldn’t permit herself to dwell on how differently it could have been in another time and place. Pryce already felt a hole in her guts when she thought about his future absence from her bed. Secretly, she loved how he smoothed paths along her limbs absently after sex, dropped stray caresses, soft and lingering, on her body. The rub of his thumb against her wrist turned her insides to lava, the graze of his knuckles down her spine melted her bones.

Resisting his touch was too costly, if it were even possible. So instead she withstood—and futilely tried not to enjoy—the proprietary and now-commonplace feeling of his alien hands against her skin. 

“Cheunh is a flexible language, in the sense that words can be combined or altered to have nuanced or new meanings. Such creations are readily understood by native speakers and added to the lexicon.”

“So you’re _inventing_ a word. It doesn’t exist.”

He moved closer, sternum pressing in her shoulder. She pushed back, an aggressive riposte.

“There exists a word— _navun’cecot_ —which is the state of being unknowingly intimate. It implies powerlessness over the condition. Its most common use refers to friends in a mutually unrequited situation.”

“Well, powerless, sure, but you can’t call _this_ unrequited,” Pryce snorted. Thrawn seemed amused by her comment, his hand leaving hers and starting to meander. She swatted it away as his fingers climbed her ribs, tickling. “But I suppose we are friends.”

“Suppose?”

His question made her hesitate, uncertain if he had a problem with her use of the conditional or the terminology.

“Allies, then?” she amended.

Thrawn’s fingers returned to her hand, squeezed once gently, then let go. “We are both, I hope. Perhaps since that day at the Gilroy Plaza Diner. But intimates now, as well, Arihnda.”

A flutter in her stomach was the immediate response. It was true. She had trusted him instantly, inexplicably, when she had no one else to trust. And when she had believed herself blind and dying on an unknown planet, he was the person she thought most likely to save her. So yes: friends and allies.

“Then nowvoon sekot isn’t the right word.”

Of course she’d said it wrong. The edges of his eyes crinkled, the corners of his mouth pulled back, holding a laugh at bay. Thrawn leaned over her, head dipping, lower, lower, and Pryce shrank back into the pillow. They hadn’t ever kissed except as a prelude to sex, and only once or twice immediately after. Now they’d just gone a round, so this wasn’t going to be _that_. He couldn’t…wouldn’t… There would be no point. Her entire body tensed, taut as a string on a hallikset. Thrawn paused just above her mouth.

“ _Navun’cecot.”_

Correcting her pronunciation on a word that already had been deemed irrelevant was somehow so Thrawn, so very typical, that Pryce relaxed.

“ _Navun’cecot,”_ she repeated.

“Yes. Well said.”

He pushed away, as if his kiss had never been a possibility, as if his lips hadn’t just hovered an inch from hers. Pryce blinked at the ceiling, dismissing the frayed hope that had stopped her heart, then reached for the covers, tugging them to her breasts. Thrawn secured the sheet tighter around her chest, then lay back down, new space between them. As usual, he was more comfortable with silence than she.

“Well, when people go off together and do nothing but have sex for a week, a lot of cultures call that a ‘honeymoon.’” Pryce hadn’t really planned to say that. Surely there was no logic or precedent behind this misplaced urge to defend Basic to a non-native speaker. She was quick to clarify. “But that’s for people in love, life partners. Not just fucking.”

Thrawn was quiet for a beat, and Pryce cursed her unthinking addition. Why hadn’t she let the conversation die? It needed to end before she said something even more regrettable. This whole asinine dialogue was her fault. She had _asked_ what was on his mind, after all. And to make matters worse, now her skin was tingling, her blood heating with pathetic, ill-timed desire. It was better to want him than the alternative, but she wished her body wasn’t so full of surprises.

“I have heard this word.” 

Thrawn’s velvet voice gave nothing away. Pryce strained to hear nuance, condemnation or mockery, but there was no clue. But of _course_ he knew the word, she chastised herself. No doubt crewmembers needed to request leave to go on honeymoons. It seemed likely the Grand Admiral would have encountered it aboard the _Chimaera_ , or at the Academy, or just in common parlance. She was an idiot.

“Thus…our situation would not qualify,” he concluded. 

Somewhere deep in Pryce's chest, something ruptured, leaking cynical mortar to reconstitute emotional walls. She told herself she was relieved, not disappointed. At least he hadn’t made fun of her contribution to the discussion. 

“No, it wouldn’t,” she agreed quickly. “So what new word will you invent, then?” She didn’t know why she was asking, except it seemed important, lying here in the shadowed lighting of their quarantine chamber. 

Thrawn made a small noise she couldn’t interpret, pulling up the covers on his side of the bed. Turning onto his stomach, his muscular arms closed around the pillow, bunching it into a ball beneath his head. 

“What components would you suggest for a possible protologism, since we have rejected existing options?”

Sighing, Pryce shut her eyes and rolled on her side, facing away from him. What did he want from her? This was _his_ idea, _his_ language. A torrent of exasperation struck, and the answer spilled from her lips without filter or forethought.

“Compulsory fuck buddies.”

It felt mean to say it, but she heard a brief chuckle, and smiled into her pillow. Good. It _was_ what they were, after all.

“Basic is far from inadequate on your lips, Arihnda,” Thrawn commented. He fell silent. Pryce thought the conversation was over, but a minute later…

“ _Bazrav’evi_.” Thrawn sounded pleased with himself.

“Which means?” She was almost afraid to ask.

“From your suggestion. _Baz_ is compulsory, or implying obligation—an absence of choice. _Rav’_ is a vulgar diminutive of the Cheunh equivalent of ‘fuck,’ and _evi_ is an affectionate way to refer to a close friend. So…compulsory fuck buddies.”

“Perfect,” she approved. “Your planet’s linguists would be proud.”

Thrawn started laughing. Reaching over, he spun Pryce around, dragging her atop him. The feel of his chest shaking with delight was destabilizing in all the right ways, and then she was kissing him, her hands in his hair, her nipples tight and aching against his chest. She could feel him, already hardening between their bodies, and broke the kiss with effort, quirking an eyebrow.

“Already?”

“ _Mar_.”

“…means ‘yes,’ I take it,” she breathed as his fingers dipped low, testing her. His cock soon followed.

_ Quarantine Day Seven _

“Excuse me sir. Excuse me sir. Excuse me sir.”

The drone was annoying and Pryce grit her teeth against it. What now?

“Excuse me sir. Excuse me sir.”

“Switch off!” she hissed, dragging herself upright. Thrawn was asleep, one well-defined arm trapping her stomach.

“Excuse me madam. Might you assist me in waking up the Grand Admiral?”

Rubbing a wrist against her eyes, Pryce looked down, shoving Thrawn unceremoniously. 

“Thrawn. The droid wants you.”

“I’m KO-5D madam. You can call me Kayo if you like.”

She ignored it, alarm starting to crest in her body. Thrawn wasn’t moving. She’d learned he was a light sleeper, for the most part.

“Get the emdee. Now.”

“Right away, madam.” The labor droid, to its credit, rushed out of the room. It was stupid to not have called the emdee sooner, but at least it could take an order.

Pryce wriggled free from Thrawn’s embrace, holding her breath. His back rose and fell, very slowly, but he was alive. She placed two fingers on his neck just as the emdee came in.

“Do something!”

The droid was already busy, not bothering to respond to her needless directive. It placed a hypoinjector into the back of Thrawn’s neck, then ran a diagnostic scan. Watching the glowing device beep as it moved over his naked body gave her a chill. The shiver reminded her of her own nudity, and Pryce left the bed, eyes still locked on Thrawn.

The emdee flipped him face-up, checked his eyelids. It let out a strange robotic sigh, and forced what looked like six medcapsules down his throat. 

“Excuse me madam.” The KO-5D was back. She ignored it. “Excuse me madam, I’m sorry but this is rather urgent.”

 _More urgent than Thrawn dying in his sleep?_ Pryce wanted to scream, but instead snapped “Report.”

“Yes madam, thank you. Per the Grand Admiral’s directive, we have left hyperspace for a communications update with the _Chimaera_. I have Commander Faro on the comm.”

Pryce froze, replaying the words in her head. Of course. They were at the halfway point, weren’t they? Time really had little meaning when measured in sexual interludes. It made sense that Thrawn would have scheduled a briefing with his ship. Sure it felt like they were the only two people in the galaxy lately, but there was still the Empire. Their work. Their staff.

“Governor.” This was the emdee droid. “The Grand Admiral is stable. The levels of oxygen in his bloodstream have unexpectedly dropped, and I have counteracted this with steroidal nutrients and a hypo-injection of concentrated medication to prevent brainswell. I believe his system automatically slowed all biological functions to address the deficiency. It is quite sophisticated, as a immunological defense.”

“What?” She understood, she _thought_ she did, but that was the only word that came out. Everything felt fragile, dull. Her brain was numb, the emdee’s explanation brutal, crippling. They were supposed to be getting _better_. Thrawn looked dead.

“I will bring in the cerebral monitor to assess if there has been any permanent damage.”

“What…” she trailed off, trying to process, and all her thoughts could summon was _brain damage brain damage brain damage._ Pressure built beneath her skin and Pryce battled for focus. “Is he in a coma?”

“No, I wouldn’t characterize it as such.” The emdee hesitated. “More like hibernation.”

“Seven hells.”

“Excuse me madam.” Again that fucking nav droid, sounding like a scratched sparkle-bop tune.

“I’ll be with her momentarily!” Pryce shouted. The droid shrank into the wall and nodded. “And don’t you _dare_ tell Faro anything about him,” she pointed at Thrawn on the bed. “Understood?”

“Yes madam.” 

“And call me Governor!”

“Yes Governor,” KO-5D immediately agreed. It left, and Pryce let herself sit on the bed, just for a few seconds, looking at Thrawn’s sleeping face. She had to move, had to find something to wear for the comm. It could be a holovid. And what could she say? Thrawn had said no one on the _Chimaera_ knew the facts of the treatment. So presumably Faro had no idea her boss had gone and got himself infected. Pryce had to think of a plausible excuse. Fast.

A tissue appeared before her face, the emdee suddenly at her right elbow. She was about to ask what it was for, then registered wetness on her cheeks. Wordlessly, Pryce took it, wiping at her eyes and staring at the bed as the droid worked, setting up monitors and connecting sensors to Thrawn’s arms, neck, and temples.

She looked around the room, unable to find anything resembling clothes. Faro was waiting. Settling for Thrawn’s dark blue robe—she had no idea where her standard white had last been discarded—she pulled it on and wrapped the long tie three times to keep it closed. Barefoot, Pryce stalked to the cockpit.

Shavit. A holocomm.

“I’m so pleased to see you’re well, Governor.” Faro sounded professional, as always.

Pryce liked her, as much as she liked any of her colleagues, and knew Thrawn was approving of her work. Swallowing back her pessimism and stress, she sat in the comm officer’s chair. Too late she remembered her undoubtedly mussed hair, and had to resist the urge to run a hand through it.

“Thank you, Commander. I’m very fortunate the _Chimaera_ was in the sector.” Her words came out stilted, but not, hopefully, disingenuous. She _was_ grateful. 

“Thrawn told me,” _shavit I dropped his title_ , Pryce swore mentally, “that you were instrumental in my rescue.”

“The Grand Admiral is kind to say so.” 

Pryce noticed the emphasis on title first, and the fact that Faro didn’t display any false modesty second. Well, better to address her CO’s absence before Faro brought it up. Pryce sat straighter, trying to will herself some authority over the slight brunette woman on the vidscreen.

“And speaking of, Commander Faro, I’m afraid the Grand Admiral is indisposed. He asked me to reschedule and take any urgent comms.”

The mood, already bizarre, altered to become practically opaque with tension. 

“I’m sorry to hear that, Governor. Did he by any chance provide his clearance for receipt of those comms?” Faro blinked, brown eyes shifting as if looking for the punchline over Pryce’s shoulder. 

_She doesn’t believe me_. Pryce kept her gaze steady. What did Faro think, that she’d murdered her savior? She needed something close to the truth.

“He did not. He is currently being attended by the emdee aboard, who would be happy to attest to his overall good health, if you require it.” Pryce’s voice dripped ice at the implication Faro would request such a thing. “It’s unusual, but due to his alien biology, the Grand Admiral suffered a minor allergic reaction to one of the synth food ingredients—we’re currently determining which one—and he’ll be unconscious for a few hours while his body clears the toxin.”

There. It sounded believable to her at least. Faro, apparently as well, as her brown eyes rounded in concern. 

“Unconscious? Like a coma?”

Pryce forced a smile. “I asked the same thing. Nothing like a coma. A natural defense of the Chiss immune system, nothing to worry about. Which is why he asked _me_ to reschedule this call.” She added a thin veneer of irritation to the last.

Faro nodded, the comm crackling slightly with static. “Please give him our best—myself and the crew.”

“Of course, Commander. He’ll appreciate your understanding.”

“And you’re completely recovered? The treatment worked?”

Startling at the term and the question, Pryce pulled herself together. She couldn’t hide the fact that she was in a robe and sporting a bedhead.

“I’m not one hundred percent," a calculated, rueful smile as Pryce swept one hand from head to torso, "as you can see, but according to the emdee, rest and time is all that’s required. I should be fully able to assume my duties—virus-free—upon our return to Lothal.”

“Wonderful news, then. We were thankful to receive your hail.” Faro smiled, a softer look. There was something knowing in it, and Pryce couldn’t decide if she should be annoyed or relieved.

“You’re too kind.”

They both fell silent, the hum of the comm filling the cockpit. Then Faro spoke, voice lower, conspiratorial.

“I do hope Grand Admiral Thrawn gets well soon. Are you certain there is no cause for…evacuation? The _Chimaera_ is on a parallel course to yours, Governor, if he requires our medical resources.”

This took Pryce by surprise. Surely Thrawn had informed Faro of the burn shuttle’s status. They couldn’t safely extract him from quarantine, in any case. The virus would infect his entire crew. The fact that Faro had asked if help was needed, though, spoke volumes as to his value.

“I would never put him in harm’s way, Commander. I promise if there is cause for intercept, we will notify you immediately.”

Appeased, Faro nodded. “Understood. Shall we reschedule in two standard days then, at the same hour? Will that be sufficient for his recovery?”

Pryce pretended to think. “Well, even tomorrow would probably be all right, but perhaps best to do as you suggest. Two standard rotations. I’ll make sure the nav droid is informed to set up the comm.”

“Thank you,” Faro said. “Please stand by for a data transmission. Grand Admiral Thrawn asked us to redirect your official correspondence so you would be able to work remotely during your convalescence. You have quite a bit of mail, Governor Pryce.”

“At least I won’t be bored,” Pryce answered with false humor, already itching to return to Thrawn’s side. Thank the stars the awkward call was ending. A few moments later, the data receipt chime sounded and Pryce confirmed the console had downloaded all the correspondence. “Thank you, Commander Faro,” she said once it was finished, by way of farewell. But Faro wasn’t quite done.

“Please let Grand Admiral Thrawn know the specialized programming he requested has been uploaded to KO-5D. And Governor, I’m grateful that you’re well and there to take care of the boss.”

The sincerity came through, and Pryce felt some of her irritation bleed away. After all, Faro was completely ignorant of the true direness of the situation. Yet there was an understanding in the other woman’s regard she couldn’t quite name, halfway between collusion and curiosity.

“Thank you,” she answered evenly. “We’re taking care of each other.”

Faro’s eyes seemed to linger for a moment on the robe, and Pryce once again resisted the desire to fiddle with her appearance. “Sounds perfect, Governor Pryce. Be well.”

The instant the comm disconnected, Pryce sprinted to the bedroom.

_ Quarantine Day Eight _

Warmth, soft and heavy, along his side. Thrawn registered the temperature, the smooth skin pressed tight to his, and sighed, remembering. Sleeping with Pryce was very agreeable. She was petite, her angles and curves somehow fitting to his form without discomfort to either of them. He liked how she didn’t move to escape his occasional embrace, never complained about his body heat. The third night, she had asked with pretended indifference if resting her head on his arm numbed or cramped it. Surprised, he’d dismissed the concern, having the distinct impression another lover had once refused her that intimacy. It boiled his blood, but whether it was the idea of another in her bed, or disgust at the evident weakness of her former choices, he wasn’t sure. Since then, he made his bicep available as her pillow, on the chance she wished to settle there. Thus far, however, Pryce had ignored the silent offering.

“Are you awake?”

There was suppressed panic in Pryce’s voice, her heat against his skin disappearing. Thrawn’s eyes shot open.

_Reddened eyes, skin ashen, pulse racing, jaw locked._

He reached for her. “Are you all right?” The words came out strangely, his voice abrasive and unused.

Pryce didn’t answer, wrapping shaking arms around his neck and practically hyperventilating into his chest. Thrawn folded her against him, confused, taking stock of the situation. There was a cerebral oximetric monitor at the bedside. Still holding her with one hand, he touched his temple, feeling the sensor attached. Drawing the logical conclusions, Thrawn kissed the top of her head, drawing back.

“All is well.”

“All is _well_?” Hysteria was closer to the surface now. “You almost died! Again!” 

“Immunostasis for my race is an extreme biological response, but rarely fatal. I had not expected it to be triggered so late in our recovery, or I would have broached the possibility.”

_Biting lip, eyes narrowing, color rising._

It was clear Pryce couldn’t decide if she wanted to kriff or kill him. 

“The emdee,” she finally said, the words hiccupping, “thought it could be related to your species.”

“He was correct.”

“And,” she took a deep breath, “your viral load plunged overnight. You’re like me now. Around 160,000.”

“How long has it been?”

“Oh…” Realization dawned in her eyes, and she pushed him back on the bed, reaching for his already-stiffening cock. “Oh, we have to fuck right now. It’s been over ten hours.”

_Hands flexing, pelvis tensing, pupils dilating._

“My pleasure, Arihnda.”

_Quarantine Day Nine _

Pryce stretched in the bed, one foot accidentally kicking the shin of the man at her side. Rolling over, she saw Thrawn was already awake, watching her.

“How long have you been up?”

“Longer than you have been kicking me.”

The answer was less precise than usual, for her bedpartner, and made her brow wrinkle skeptically. 

They had gone several rounds since her call with Faro, and in between she’d provided Thrawn the details of her lie. She’d also remembered to thank him for rerouting her official comms—it had been a welcome distraction during his ‘living dead’ phase, as Pryce was calling it. She hadn’t been able to sleep, and immersion in a datapad full of bureaucratic busywork hadn’t been the chore it should have seemed.

Lothal was surviving without her. Her deputy had forwarded several messages of congratulations from various moffs and politicians on the successful deployment of the _Nosoi_ to the Unknown Regions for colonization. Evidently, rather than admit the tragedy of her lost ship and crew, the Empire had concocted another cover story to rob the Rebels of their victory. Pryce didn’t blame the ISB for the ruse—it was actually quite brilliant, and saved her the humiliation of media covering her escape. Of _course_ the well-loved Governor of Lothal had seen the pioneers off! She had so valued the mission, her own advisors and staff had been included in the group, sent to settle new worlds for the glory of the Emperor.

Thrawn, currently gliding a flat palm leisurely along her hip, had made no comment when she’d updated him on the news from Coruscant. His condition was improved—they both were no longer showing symptoms—and sex now felt more like going to the gym than medical requirement.

It was bizarre, but since she didn’t suffer coughing fits five times an hour, and no longer had any broken bones, with even bacta patches decreasing in size and number, it felt almost like a vacation. No responsibilities, nothing to do but eat, sleep, and have amazing sex.

She smiled unconsciously, then rolled her eyes when Thrawn returned it. He was smiling more often lately, and Pryce no longer had the impression it was just to humor her or mimic her moods. 

“Breakfast?” he asked.

“I think it’s closer to dinner.”

“No,” Thrawn yawned. Pryce liked his yawns, so unlike her former images of him, further evidence of the behind-the-scenes reality of this intimacy. His pink tongue curled feral towards the roof of his mouth as his jaw stretched wide. Not for the first time, she mentally compared him to some wild animal. “In shiptime, about 0400.”

“Do you have to be always right about everything?” she groaned, rolling away from him. Thrawn’s reply was to slide the proprietary hand on her hip to her belly, and pull her back, flush to his torso. She couldn’t escape.

Caught, she wiggled, teasing her ass into his crotch, and Thrawn responded with a kiss to the arc between neck and shoulder. Pryce stiffened at the contact. It felt too affectionate, too comfortable. Their constant sex had resulted in emotional détente, free from contemplation of meaning or importance. But moments like this—if not avoided outright—required distance that she couldn’t summon right now. His lips were soft and reverent, his hands wickedly intuitive.

Pryce surrendered, closing her eyes and allowing her treacherous body to enjoy the press of flesh, the strength of his limbs. Inappropriate contentment, ever-threatening her defenses, took the passivity for vulnerability. It seeped beneath her skin, turning her limp and yielding in his embrace. 

“What are you thinking?” The whisper in her ear gave her shivers, making her press even harder into the line of him. Stars he had a good body.

She rejected honesty. Confessing she was enjoying this was beyond her comfort zone, no matter how much it appeared her partner was also relaxing. Cursing internally at her inability to formulate a ready-made lie, Pryce bit her lip. She couldn’t imply impatience for their full recovery, or lament their fate—Thrawn was liable to take it as criticism. And it was unlikely she could sound convincing regardless; sometimes she thought it would be nice to have a whole month of quarantine.

Her answer was taking too long, growing tension in the powerful muscles holding her proof of the fact.

“Wondering about tune-izzbee.” It was the only thing she could think of. “Should we try it?”

Thrawn chuckled, a puff of air shifting her hair as his pecs pushed into the planes of her back. Pryce sighed, sensing a reprieve. 

“We still need to discuss _your_ favorite positions, Arihnda.”

The way he said her name always made her feel light and strange. Rotating in Thrawn's arms, she settled with their noses level. Fear, misplaced and sudden, spiked into Pryce’s heart.

They had established a new normal, a comfortable way of dealing with their predicament. But _nothing_ was normal about this, and when Thrawn dropped her off on Lothal, that would be the end. No more possessive kisses, no more shudders of delight at his touch, no more sweet pain from being well-fucked and hyperstimulated until sanity felt tenuous and pleasure all-consuming.

And now, what were they doing? Cuddling?! Snuggling in bed, spooning and sweetness as if they were on holiday instead of containing a deadly illness. It was inane, really. It needed to stop.

“It doesn’t matter.” The words were flat, and she blinked rapidly, knowing Thrawn would attempt deductions from her tone. She had to say something else. “I mean, yours are mine, too.”

“Arihnda.”

Yes, he was too good at reading her, too attentive. Pryce turned rigid in his arms, unable to help it.

“Thrawn.”

His name was a challenge on her tongue, asking if he really wanted to draw down now, when her mind was scattered and emotions precariously reined. His eyes searched hers, so bright and alien, irregular gold flecks glimmering in a crimson lake. They burned patient, supernatural and steady. At times, Thrawn’s xenobiology made him appear more godlike than alien. Pryce managed to hold his extraordinary gaze, swallowing once. When it was clear he wasn’t going to speak, his expression telling her nothing, she thought of a real question.

“What does _ttoheti_ mean anyway?”

The ghost of a smile, but tension still bled into her limbs from his embrace.

“The closest approximation in Basic would be ‘plow,’ I believe.”

She smirked. “Appropriate.”

“And _tun’isbi_ ,” he continued, unasked, “means ‘dagger’.”

“Should I be worried?” she joked.

“Not if you trust me.”

The answer was serious, laden with as much significance as sensuality. Pryce tried to ignore it, decided she couldn’t. Surely he knew already, but his tone had required affirmation. He was too good at reading her, yes, but she was getting better at doing the same.

“I trust you.”

Without another word, Thrawn rolled her face-up on the mattress. His kisses were their own language, conveying satisfaction, justifying her faith, and confidently promising a thousand things too complicated for speech. Pryce decided to forget about the future for a little while longer.


	8. Replication

_ Quarantine Day Ten _

Pryce slept, and Thrawn dressed, paying meticulous attention to his uniform. The rescheduled comm with the _Chimaera_ was in a few minutes. His hair was getting long, resisting his attempts to recreate the standard slicked-back style. A few strands insisted on springing free, requiring water to tame them. And his Admiral’s whites—the same starched material he’d worn every day for years—no longer felt comfortable. The pants were stiff, the tight sleeves restricting movement. Only ten days without, and already he wanted to shed the outfit. A rueful smile touched his lips as he considered the reason.

After a quick debate, Thrawn also donned his spotlessly-shined boots. It wasn’t necessary for the holocomm, but mentally helpful to make the shift from the bedroom to official duties.

He exited the sleeping quarters without a sound, walking with a light step to minimize the click of his tread down the corridor. The shuttle was quiet otherwise, the subdued overhead fluorescence contributing to a synthetic varnish of calm over all as he reached the cockpit.

The labor droid was already opening a channel for the briefing. Thrawn settled in the comm officer’s chair, looking without expression at his reflection in the console’s shiny surfaces. The sonic had been refreshing. Yet although the strain of the virus had diminished greatly, he did not feel entirely himself. He suspected Pryce was the principal factor: her presence, her needs, the difficulty of her volatility and vulnerability. Since their quarantine had begun, prior thoughts and wants had been subsumed by overpowering concern, and then unceasing desire. Now everything was dazzling and convoluted, a hazardous mire of passion that allowed for neither comfort nor escape. Sometimes he wondered if he would survive this plague only to find its cure had exacted a different kind of deadly toll.

“You’re connected, sir.”

Thrawn nodded. “Commander Faro.”

The holovid shimmered, Faro’s face coming into aqua-tinted clarity. Her eyes first narrowed, then immediately relaxed. Relief rested undisguised on his XO’s face, smoothing the lines from her brow.

“Grand Admiral Thrawn, you’re looking well.” The slight emphasis on the last word gave away her surprise at the fact. 

“I am well, thank you, Commander. I understand Governor Pryce explained the situation.”

Faro was already nodding. “A synthfood allergy, sir?” Thrawn confirmed, offering nothing further, and Faro moved on quickly. “Did Governor Pryce update you regarding official reports about the attack?”

“Yes.”

“In the last twenty-four hours, the Rebel cell taking credit for the assault has been traced to Fest.”

Fest. Thrawn considered. A planet with more Imperial resources than Rebels, at least as far as he was aware. Perhaps Moff Seerdon was getting sloppy.

“They were rather far from home.” It made little strategic sense to attack a relatively minor target like the _Nosoi_ with such distant resources. Something to analyze at another time.

“Yessir. _Relentless_ has been deployed to deal with them.”

“Excellent.”

His reply was automatic, but Thrawn was far from content, annoyance at the poor assignment simmering beneath his skin. Admiral Konstantine wasn’t a proper choice for the mission. The Imperial Navy had apparently decided a ship from Lothal’s sector would be appropriate to serve vengeance for an attempt on its governor, but Thrawn didn’t trust Konstantine to strike effectively enough to get results.

“Shall I request we deploy to support, Grand Admiral?”

Thrawn didn’t visibly react, although the question was unexpected. It wasn't too surprising that Faro predicted his wish to personally destroy those responsible. Perhaps Pryce had let something slip in her conversation with Faro that had hinted to the shift in their relationship. Or was it simply that his XO shared his negative view of Konstantine’s capabilities? It didn’t matter, ultimately, and Thrawn knew it. Tempting as the suggestion was, he had already provided the Emperor with more than enough intelligence regarding the value he personally placed on Arihnda Pryce’s life. To insist upon exacting revenge when another ISD had already been assigned to the task would draw attention from other, less discreet corners of the political realm.

“Thank you, Commander Faro, but no. The _Relentless_ is equipped to the task.”

As always, his words were deliberate, precise. Being equipped was no guarantee of success. The subtlety, he expected, was not lost on his deputy.

“Understood, sir.” She launched into the details and reports of the daily work of his Star Destroyer. The _Chimaera_ was well, the crew also, and all was on schedule regarding their arrival in orbit over Lothal. Thrawn thanked Faro automatically, wondering if Pryce was awake yet. His mind wasn’t as focused as it should be, and he found his thoughts drifting to inappropriate places, perhaps a result of the virus. Perhaps not. Their latest sexual escapades had been physically demanding—he had muscle aches in unusual areas—and Pryce had fallen asleep almost immediately this afternoon post-‘treatment’. Thrawn liked wearing her out with orgasms, even though Pryce still acted as if they were entirely unnecessary.

“Grand Admiral?”

“The comm went out for the last, Commander. Again, please.”

Yes, definitely not focused.

“I just asked if the bench jeweler program uploaded to the KO unit was satisfactory, sir.” 

“Yes, thank you.” He’d forgotten, uncharacteristically, with recent events, about that early request. Once they had lifted off from Firrerre, it had been a small addendum to his directives. The KO should now be able to craft and repair with the skills of an artisanal specialty droid. And Pryce’s necklace, whether or not it held any sentimental significance, could be irradiated of virus, and, hopefully, fixed.

“Wonderful. Do you need anything else, Grand Admiral?”

“I will comm if I do. Thank you for your work, Commander Faro.”

“Of course, sir. And may I say, I am very pleased that both you and the Governor are in better health.”

“As am I. Thrawn out.”

He disconnected before she could respond. Faro was sharp, one of his best officers, and while he didn’t necessarily _mind_ her suspecting there was more than professional interest to his presence here, it wouldn’t do to get chatty. He was entitled to personal relationships, after all. And the Governor of Lothal was a respectable choice. 

Thrawn pinched the bridge of his nose, stunned at his own attempts to rationalize. Either Faro guessed or she suspected. To encourage speculation was unprofessional, and to contemplate further was a waste of time. Should the future require that the circumstances of his private life become public…

The thought grew splintered as Thrawn got to his feet. The future. They would both endure, it seemed certain, but as for their relationship, he accepted that it may not.

When he returned to the bedroom, Pryce was waiting. Nude.

_Heat centered in genitals, pulse unsteady, legs spread wide, elbows locked behind her. Eyes sparkling, mouth parted._

He paused at the threshold, already stiffening in his pants. This was a new side of the Governor.

“Come here.”

It was unmistakably an order, and it didn’t occur to Thrawn not to play along, already reaching for the fasteners of his tunic. But Pryce shook her head deliberately, slowly, making a tsking sound. “Leave _everything_ on.”

Cocking an amused eyebrow and striding over, Thrawn gestured with an open palm at his tented crotch. “ _Everything_?” he teased. Perhaps she hadn’t been joking about her Grand Admiral fantasy.

“Almost everything,” she amended, rising to her knees so their faces were more level. Pryce glided her hands up the rigid sleeves of his uniform, leaving trails of heat in their wake. They drifted to trace the rank plate on his chest, then broadened to smooth over the gold trimming his shoulders. Hungry fingers carded into Thrawn’s slicked back hair, undoing all the earlier painstaking work before the mirror, and yanked him down to the bed.

_Quarantine Day Eleven _

Everything was heat. Pryce twisted uncomfortably, feeling the air catch in her lungs. What was wrong? Was she dreaming? Suffocating?

With a gasp she awoke, the reason for her distress immediately apparent. Thrawn had somehow migrated to lie half atop her in the night, his head beside hers on the pillow. His arms encircled her ribs, making her wonder how she hadn’t been jerked to wakefulness earlier by the unevenness of her spine against the mattress. His heavy chest crushed her right side, pressing her breast flat, slowing her breath. 

She shoved, and he stirred, arms sliding further under her back.

“Thrawn.”

They tightened.

“I can’t _breathe_ Thrawn, get off me!”

One red eye cracked open, the colors shifting within as he adjusted to the dim light.

“Get. Off.”

Pushing up, Thrawn rolled to her right, arms still loosely looped around her. With both hands, she dragged the top one off, certain he was making this more difficult than necessary. They had slept entangled before, and she didn’t exactly know what was different now, but panic lurked at the borders of her mind. She couldn’t stay like this, couldn’t sleep under him and encased by him and absorbed by him.

“Stop!” Her voice was desperate, embarrassingly so, but at least it really woke him.

“What’s wrong, Arihnda?”

“I don’t want to be suffocated in my sleep, that’s all! Is that so hard to believe?” She felt unstable in a way she didn’t understand, trying to escape his other arm. “Worse than a baby shaupaut!”

They’d been fucking for ten days. Everything had gotten comfortable, dangerously so. It wasn’t the first time she had woken up in Thrawn’s arms.

Usually it was too nice, a cozy feeling that imparted an ambiance she couldn’t allow herself to grow accustomed to. They weren’t dating. They weren’t _lovers_ in the ordinary sense. They were colleagues thrown together in a terrible situation, that was all. _Bazrav’evi,_ as mutually agreed.And the more the Grand Admiral did things like this, the more upsetting everything became. She was _not_ going to fall in love with him. She wouldn’t put everything they both had at risk to do so. Surely his strategic brain could grasp that rationale. It was the reason they both had kept some distance, why he wasn’t whispering sweet nothings in her ears or offering her sentimental gifts. He _wouldn’t_ , therefore, she couldn’t…

So why was this morning so distressing? Her heart was racing, and her nerves felt brittle, liable to snap or shatter. The blood in her veins flowed thin and noxious, and her mind didn’t serve. Pryce felt inadequate, not able to control her reaction and alarmingly deficient in emotional clarity.

“Be calm, Arihnda. I—”

Oh, that did it. Her last nerve flamed out at that condescending, stupid command and Pryce interrupted before he could finish.

“Don’t tell me to calm down! You can’t give me orders like one of your crew, _Admiral_. Let’s see how you like waking up with someone covering you like fur on a nerf.” She backed away, sitting up and far from his disorienting embrace. 

Thrawn’s pale lips crooked unpleasantly, as if tasting something sour. “You may try it and find out.”

Well, she didn’t expect such a preposterous proposition, the sheer lunacy of it cutting through her anger.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I assure you, I am quite serious.”

“I weigh a lot less than you! It wouldn’t be the same.”

Thrawn took a breath, evidence of pending argument, but the emdee droid, their archetypal sidekick, entered the room. Time for another evaluation. They waited for the results, neither willing to reenter the fray until the bad news was delivered.

“Amazing!” the emdee proclaimed, synthetic joy coloring its voice. “Governor Pryce, you are at 71,879, and Grand Admiral, yours is only slightly higher, at 74,226.” It clapped its hands together. “Should this continue, I predict both of you shall be well below the 30,000 danger zone in three days’ time!”

“Excellent. Please leave.”

Thrawn’s voice was cold, and the surge of elation that she’d felt at the news also chilled at the sound. Clearly the emdee was confused, and stammered its compliance as it departed.

Pryce slid from the bed, turning to face him. Obviously he was displeased, but she wasn't going to back down, putting her hands on her hips, ready for the confrontation. 

~~

_Nostrils flared, skin blotchy, temperature heightened, nipples hard, jaw set._

For once Thrawn didn’t really care to explore Pryce’s irrational reactions to intimacy. This wasn’t the first time since he’d known her that Pryce had exploded over something stupid, and it surely wouldn’t be the last. They’d been fucking for over a week, and if she preferred to be treated as a life-saving sperm receptacle rather than a lover, he believed himself capable of that adjustment.

Just the thought of the discussion made him tired, and Thrawn got out of bed, reaching for his robe. He tied it loosely and started for the door, only to have Pryce step in front of him.

“Excuse me.”

He tried very hard to control his voice, to keep the frustration from it. And thought he was mostly successful.

_Arms relaxing, mouth twisting, lower eyelids tensing._

“Thrawn…”

“Not now, Arihnda.”

He walked out of the room, exhausted, and headed towards the cargo hold, where the KO-5D had set up a workshop. It had successfully matched the electroplating on the broken necklace and was recreating the missing loops and clasp. 

“Sir,” the droid looked up at Thrawn from its well-lit workbench. “As you can see, I’ve identified the refractory metal. It was difficult to replace. Doonium. Very expensive.”

“I am aware,” Thrawn said dryly.

“As this is an Imperial Lambda class T-4a, however—”

“What’s going on?”

The words were barbed, combative. Thrawn turned to see Pryce, now swaddled in her robe, leaning against the side of the ship.

_Eyes narrowed, pupils dilated, neck tense._

Thrawn stood to the side, carefully relaxing his posture to allow her an unobstructed view of the droid’s activity. Her instability was quite enough for the both of them.

“What…is this?” She straightened, took a step closer, then turned to Thrawn in question.

“I retrieved this broken necklace from the escape pod. KO-5D is now programmed to repair jewelry.”

“Faro mentioned an upload. I just…” she trailed off, shaking her head. “I didn’t understand.” Her voice had softened, toxicity thinned with surprise.

Thrawn stayed silent.

“Why keep it a secret? I thought I lost it…” Pryce walked into the work area, their spat apparently forgotten, and looked down at the table.

“I hoped to return it to you in wearable form. It was damaged; there existed the possibility it was unsalvageable. I would, of course, have returned it regardless, but did not wish to offer false hope before confirming.” He folded his arms and looked over her shoulder at the droid’s work. The KO had polished and improved the shape. Thrawn hoped it wasn’t _too_ improved—some preferred a patina of age or imperfection for nostalgic or aesthetic reasons, after all.

Pryce bit her lip. Turning around, startled at his proximity. Thrawn moved away, giving her space.

“It was a gift.” She blinked rapidly. “From my parents.”

“Apologies for my presumption, Arihnda. Would you prefer to have the repair finished on Lothal?”

“No, it’s…perfect.” Her words were stilted and Thrawn couldn’t tell if she was pleased or upset, the delivery like someone shaken to their senses from a particularly vivid dream.

“Governor,” KO-5D spoke up, “I have succeeded in preserving the original depth of polish, to keep the piece uniform after brazing.” One clawed metal finger pointed at the repaired loops. “This class shuttle’s hull, fortuitously, is reinforced with Lothalian doonium of similar weight and composition. Even the color was close enough to replace the missing pieces. It only required taking some shavings, then soldering—”

“Thank you,” Pryce cut him off absently. “Thank you very much.”

She turned to the side, walking past Thrawn and back towards the stern, something defeated in her movements.

“Sir, is the work—”

“Masterfully done,” Thrawn replied, turning to leave himself. They had slept too long, and no matter what sort of mood she was in, it was time for more ‘treatment.’ “Continue.”

~~

Pryce stepped into the sonic, putting it on the hottest setting she could bear. The chemical spray crashed down, pummeling her scalp. Adjusting the pressure, she rested one hand on the wall, leaning into the heat. She hadn’t let herself think about the necklace beyond registering its absence, stifling the grief of its permanent loss. And now she had learned that in the midst of her rescue, Thrawn had the presence of mind to search the escape pod, retrieve something so seemingly minor—broken even!—and then arrange for its meticulous repair as if it were completely natural. A normal thing to do.

She knew it wasn’t normal.

Thrawn was anything but normal.

Despite the high temperature, she felt cold, and a shudder rippled through her body. Pryce didn’t want to think about this. About how when he’d said “false hope” her stomach had twisted and heart ached. About what it meant, about why, or how, or the strange, small little pieces that always seemed to fall into place when Thrawn was around. He was a master strategian, and perhaps this confusion and conflict she was feeling was all part of some bizarre scheme. It didn’t matter if it were… They just had a few more days to make it through, after all, then everything would be back to the way it was before.

The refresher portal opened with a soft chime. 

“It’s about that time again,” Pryce called out, trying to take charge of the moment. Of course. They had to fuck. Not the most opportune moment, when she felt weak and unstable, her heart lodged halfway between her throat and collarbones. But it couldn’t be helped.

Thrawn said nothing, as the stall’s door slid aside at his touch. 

“Here?” she asked into the open space, reaching for the soap dispenser and making room for him to enter. It was a stupid question, undeserving of a response, but he gave her one anyway.

“Here,” he confirmed, stepping next to her, naked and massive. Suddenly all she could see was muscled and blue, the definition in his arms outlined by the sonic’s spray striking his biceps. Water streamed in rivulets down his abdomen, following the artistic lines of his hips, the muscles of his thighs. Pryce moved to take his cock in her hand; he wasn’t ready yet.

She looked up to his face, seeing something she couldn’t understand. All her earlier instincts to lash out evaporated at the sight. Drops speckled his face—a living mosaic, like tears. Water appeared, scattered across the blue, melding, dripping, disappearing.

Her other hand moved to his cheek, palm smearing the beaded spray into glistening, watery camouflage. Thrawn turned his head, tasting her skin. Her pulse jumped at the wrenching, perfect tenderness of his lips. The sonic’s heavy, humid air denied her the oxygen required to avoid being conquered by a sudden, vicious longing. Usually she could strangle such hope in its tracks, but now...

“Why…” she started, the question dying in her throat. Thrawn’s hands reached for her. His kiss was silk and stone and forgiving. She melted into him, arms winding around his torso as the heat rained around them.

He broke the kiss, shook his head once.

She didn’t understand this mute negation, but wanted to, desperately wanted to, knowing something important was happening to him, happening to them, right now, and powerless to explain or comprehend. So she kissed him again, trying to give him what he always seemed to give her—a sense of security, of strength and surety no matter what. A promise of survival, if nothing else. That was what they gave one another.

Soaking and sighing, he pressed her against the sleek wall. Her forearms locked behind his neck as Thrawn lifted her legs to his waist. She couldn’t wait, didn’t want another minute without him inside her, and arched into his cock. He entered easily, smoothly, even half-erect. Motionless, Thrawn deepened the kiss as he hardened fully, lengthening inside her body. Moaning into his mouth, Pryce drew herself straighter and crossed her ankles behind his back, flexing her thighs and cunt around him. Every time she was overfilled, every time she was astonished by him. Still he didn’t move.

“You want this,” he said softly, so softly she barely heard him over the pounding water. “Nothing more.”

“I want _you_ ,” she whispered, no thought preceding the words. “I always have.”

She didn’t expect an answer, numb at her own confession. Thrawn pulled out, then pressed even deeper, pinning her to the wet shell of the stall.

“You have me,” he answered, kissing her lightly, too lightly for the guarantee it seemed. Pryce stared into his face, wondering at his meaning.

He thrust again and then stilled inside her, as if someone had paused a pornographic holovid. Pryce searched his eyes, which still trapped hers, and tightened her limbs that surrounded him. Was he waiting for a response? What…

His mouth stopped her unspoken questions, sucking moisture from her lips, licking it from her neck. The slippery surface at Pryce’s back squeaked against her skin as he began to fuck her, the penetration total. Each thrust made her grip him harder, her body contracting around him, keeping him deeper, longer. Every withdrawal was a loss, her breath cracked by deprivation, her hips bowing against his to prevent separation.

“Don’t leave.” More words unbidden escaping her throat, dual meanings she was afraid to parse. Thrawn made her weak, she knew it—that’s why she said such things, why she couldn’t dare to feel what he made her feel. She _wasn’t_ weak, she knew that. She was strong and powerful and ambitious and sometimes brave, but somehow weak for him. 

Somehow _allowed_ to be weak with him.

Thrawn kissed her harder, circling, slamming deep, rocking rhythmically, no longer thrusting. Slow, languid movements that hit parts of her body she’d never known existed. Pryce’s tongue danced with his, on the edge and tasting it so close, so sweet. Her thighs shook as she came, a tempest of nerve-endings roaring as one. She felt his climax hit then, prolonging hers. And when their lips finally parted, she still resisted the loss, holding him, letting him soften inside her, feeling the reality of him as if for the first time.

~~

_Short breath, soft lips, heavy eyes, muscles slack._

Thrawn gently set Pryce’s legs on the sonic’s nonslip floor, stormed by the force of joint orgasm. Everything was light, changed. He didn’t question, didn’t care, for once in his life, to examine the reasons. Her arms were still around him, her face upturned, eyes transfixed.

He kissed her in satisfaction, relishing the wet flesh sliding against his ribs, inviting him closer. His cock slipped out, as Thrawn took her again in his arms, backing her once more into the wall.

“Fuck me again.”

His lips touched her forehead. “I will.”

“How many more times?” she whispered, closing her eyes.

“As many as you wish.”

“Good.”

The affirmation seemed to steady her, and Pryce let her arms drift over his shoulders, down his biceps, along his forearms. One hand glided a trail over the muscled waves of his stomach as her other pressed the door control.

Stepping out, Thrawn held a towel open for her, tucking it into a wrap beneath her armpit before taking one for himself.

“What…” She paused. “I probably shouldn’t ask.” 

Pryce's round eyes shadowed, darkness swirling noxious and fearful in the rich blue.

“That depends,” Thrawn answered evenly, “on whether or not you are ready for an answer.”

_Shoulders stiff, lips pursed, eyes downcast._

At first, he didn’t think she would reply, her hands playing with the edges of the towel and her toes making fists on the bathmat.

“What happens after this?”

Her vulnerability at that moment was enough to make him forgive a lifetime of irrational temper tantrums. And he may have to do exactly that, Thrawn conceded silently, thinking of her earlier behavior. It didn’t matter. He loved her. It was simple, when reduced to essentials.

“I meant what I said, Arihnda.” Thrawn rubbed the towel through his hair, then wrapped it around his waist. He watched carefully for her reaction. This was critical. Truths in the heat of the moment were not always the same truths in the cool of the aftermath. “You have me.” 

Resisting the urge to touch, to push or elaborate, he simply stood.

“For…” Her voice was dull, flat.

_Forehead tense, wrinkled. Wet eyes blink rapidly._

Thrawn waited.

“…three more days.”

Pryce persisted in her denial, every step forward, a self-defeating race to retreat. He was patient, but she was maddening. 

“No.”

“No?”

_Heartbeat arrhythmic, slight twitch to outer left eye. Hands clench. Lips tighten._

“No, Arihnda,” Thrawn sighed, unsure if he was amused or annoyed at her refusal to understand. Perhaps both. “You have me now, and you have me in three, four, ten, forty, four hundred days.”

Her hand reached for the basin of the sink, clutching the rim. A nod, a reflex perhaps, and then she looked down at her towel. Checking the fold of the edge, Pryce appeared at a loss.

“Arihnda…”

“I don’t know.” She spoke quietly, the words clear.

Thrawn tried to focus on her body, attempting to read something in her posture or words, but the heat of the sonic had uniformly raised the temperature, interfering with the infrared spectrum. There was no strategy, no plan in his head for the optimum way to proceed. Once again he had miscalculated. She had _asked_ , therefore he had thought... He had hoped. But Pryce wasn’t ready, didn't trust him or herself enough to be comfortable discarding the solitary, unchanging refuge of established routine. She expected lies, so that was all she could hear. 

“I understand.” And that, in fact, was the first lie he told her. Picking up his robe from the floor, Thrawn left Pryce alone in the refresher.

~~

She was such a fool. Pryce sat on the uncomfortable chair after Thrawn left, damp head in her hands. It was impossible to justify her behavior, the sheer idiocy of her reactions. It was one thing to feel you were losing your mind due to high fever and unceasing pain, quite another to look happiness in the eye and shoot it like a rabid loth cat. 

Thrawn had offered himself to her. Pledged, even. Yes, she had confessed first, but his response had been beyond anything she’d ever dreamed. Pryce was sick of being an idiot, sick of having to apologize to herself and to him, sick of being _sick_ , of wondering if any of her feelings could be trusted, or if she was suffering from some emotional imprinting as a result of nonstop copulation. Humans were animals, after all.

Slamming a hand down on the countertop, Pryce cursed until she ran out of words. Self-sabotage apparently was her specialty. She had been let down too many times, so distrust was her default setting. Groaning in frustration, she stood back up, glaring at herself in the mirror with reddened eyes.

She’d responded badly, even if his promise had seemed too bizarre to be real. And this fucking disease meant she didn’t even have the option to avoid him, to hide from her childish behavior. Although they had been able to go longer without adverse symptoms between fucks since their viral load had dropped below 150,000, inevitably small spikes would result. They had kept fairly well to a schedule of every four hours, rarely more than five; neither wished to test the virus to see if it would complain about longer intervals between ‘treatments.’

The worst part was, Pryce’s answer had been honest. She _didn’t_ know. What would it mean, to ‘have’ one another? Romantically linked in plain view of the galaxy: Grand Admiral Thrawn and the Governor of Lothal? Would it ruin his career? Or destroy hers? She sighed, letting her head fall back and hit the refresher wall. Would it diminish her accomplishments or make her less respected? Turn her into just another woman who rose to authority by fucking it? Or maybe they would just become the laughingstock of the holonews, the tabloids printing libel about red-eyed babies and inventing some stupid name for their coupling. 

Or would it be a secret, a clandestine affair that reeked of shame and cowardice? Those hidden trysts she’d imagined in her fantasies didn’t seem as appealing now. What if Thrawn had no interest in her beyond sexual encounters? She could have him, apparently, but on his terms, when it was convenient to his schedule… Pryce’s nose wrinkled, finding that idea particularly distasteful. 

She’d always wanted him—that was true. Revisiting their dialogue made her realize Thrawn had not _exactly_ reciprocated. He hadn’t said he wanted her. He’d simply said he was hers.

That revelation—regardless of any terms attached—nonetheless made butterflies dance in her belly.

But why the difference? Was it just another aspect of the obligation? The _bazrav’evi?_ Pryce’s eyes narrowed at her reflection, angling her neck as if searching for clues in the taut veins lining her throat. She didn’t know enough about Chiss culture to have any idea what such a pronouncement signified to him. Did he have some weird concept of a life debt now? Perhaps it was merely a formal declaration of support.

Her pathetic rationale was starting to grow flimsy, even to her own warped analysis. 

Pryce cursed again, groaning as she turned away from the mirror. Tugging off the towel, she scrubbed herself dry, shaking water from her hair onto the absorbent material. Wallowing in her own misery was fruitless and absurd. She took a long, painful breath. She wouldn’t apologize for her uncertainty. It was… well, she didn’t know what it was. A decision to be postponed? A revelation to be shared? 

Thrawn was not a martyr. He must want her, he _must_. Surely he had nothing to complain about in bed. In fact, she wondered at her own hyperactive libido in the past few days. She expected not many women would have kept up.

Decided not to decide, not to address it anymore, Pryce took her robe from the hook against the wall and tied it loosely. Thrawn had taken to retying it whenever he noticed, and she liked the regularity of it. If he didn’t this time, it would be a bad omen, a sign that her error was unrecoverable, the opportunity already lost, and she would forget the entire interlude.


	9. Integration

The emdee found him some time later in the small mess. Thrawn held out an arm absently, chewing roba jerky and perusing a logged report from the _Chimaera_. 

“Thank you sir,” it said, taking a reading and disappearing to determine results. The droid had gotten better and faster, and periodically had offered suggestions and information based on its observations. Thrawn had asked it to submit everything into the shipboard computer. Originally the plan had been to destroy all assimilated data with the shuttle, but lately he had wondered if there was anything worth keeping. It would have to be scrubbed to be useful, but Thrawn didn’t like the idea of rare knowledge going to waste. The decision could be postponed, but not for much longer.

Taking another bite of the peppery snack, Thrawn started the same paragraph for what felt like the tenth time, then gave up. A waste of time, and failing to distract him from the problem of Arihnda Pryce. He knew she was abrasive and unpredictable, but had never felt the volatility of her emotions quite so keenly—or personally—as he had today.

The most infuriating aspect of the entire situation was that he couldn’t reconcile her behavior and response. They were well past the unpleasantness of their first few sexual encounters. Pryce had not only accepted his role, but had shown enthusiasm and inventiveness once they had settled into a schedule. She found him attractive—there was no longer any question of that—and had just admitted her interest was longstanding. And his attention to her needs and pleasure surely demonstrated his own desire. 

Lines of confusion creased Thrawn’s forehead as he leaned back in his chair, crossing an ankle over one bare knee. There were two primary vectors that led from this point. The first, explicitly state his regard and intentions, confront her and force a discussion. Based upon previous attempts to do so, Thrawn doubted the success of this option. Pryce had made it clear that certain topics were off-limits, and anything beyond the purely physical aspects of their current reality seemed to fall into the forbidden category.

The datapad hung loosely from his fingers, forgotten, and almost slipped to the floor. Thrawn tightened his grip at the last second, preventing the fall, and set the thin rectangle on the table with a grimace.

The second course of action—or rather, inaction—would be to abandon any plans for a meaningful relationship with Lothal’s stubborn governor. He could accept that Pryce was not equipped, interested, or willing to give wholly of herself emotionally as she had done sexually. This route seemed to have the most factual evidence in support. It also hit like failure, manifesting as invisible pressure compacting everything inside him, from bones to blood vessels, aching and cold.

Thrawn’s long fingers tapped the dimmed screen, the sound emphasizing his indecision and lack of direction. Just then, the KO unit whirred with energy into the mess, an inexplicable aura of satisfaction surrounding its movements. Clearly its work had gone well. Thrawn marvelled at the sophistication in its circuits, to convey such a sense despite the blankness of its features. The droid held out a shiny cushion, which Thrawn recognized as a repurposed heat sheet, folded into a neat triangle. The fully repaired necklace was gracefully arranged on top. 

“I believe it is finished, sir.”

Thrawn stood up, taking the cloth, eyeing the craftsmanship. Faro had clearly gone to some trouble to find such specific programming. He never would have guessed a labor droid could execute a task requiring such aesthetic nuance, demanding this immensely delicate assembly. The oblong rings of doonium formed an extended, waving infinity loop, interlocking and never-ending. The droid, without knowing what the original clasp resembled, had elected to continue the motif with a similar loop that caught and intertwined seamlessly with the opposite end. It was a work of art.

“Quite an achievement.” Thrawn didn’t try to hide the fact that he was impressed.

The droid shifted and bobbed, clasping silver hands together at its wiry waist. “Thank you, sir. I hope the Governor is pleased when you give it to her.”

Thrawn handed the necklace back and took his seat at the small table again. "You will _return_ it to her.” The emphasis was deliberate. "Excellent work."

“Thank you, sir.” KO appeared to not know whether this task would be reward or punishment, but walked off nonetheless towards the sleeping quarters, makeshift cushion held carefully in its hands. Both of the droids had quickly learned that was where their masters could unfailingly be located.

Finishing the jerky, Thrawn illuminated the datapad screen once more. There was a great deal to catch up on, and tomorrow was the next scheduled call with the _Chimaera_. 

“Sir.” Another interruption, this time the emdee droid. Thrawn raised an eyebrow, awaiting the results. “Your viral load is 42,220.228. Congratulations, the lowest yet.”

“And Governor Pryce?”

“She…she refused to let me check, Grand Admiral. Said she wanted, to quote: “just one kriffing break” and sent me away.” The droid appeared to brace itself for a reprimand. “Should I have informed you immediately, sir?”

Thrawn left his chair again, giving up on the report for the afternoon. He would attempt it later.

“Yes, you should have.” His voice wasn’t annoyed, just matter-of-fact. “I suppose one test skipped will not change much. We shall _insist_ ,” he stressed the verb, “in six hours’ time.”

“Yes sir. Very good.”

The droid fled, and Thrawn walked over to the foodsynth. Pryce, like himself, was usually hungry these days. Characterizing some of their more experimental encounters as athletic workouts would not be an exaggeration, with the resulting caloric demand and metabolic effects.

Thrawn punched in an order for tiingilar, a heavy, nutritionally-balanced casserole, and waited. Impulsively, he browsed the screen to see if any wine was available in the ship’s stores. There was—not much variety, but a Mandalorian red was listed, which was somewhat promising. The vintages weren’t familiar, but Thrawn thought it might complement the spice of the dish. 

A few minutes later, bottle balanced on the food tray and two glasses in hand, he headed to find Pryce, only to bump into her in the open passenger bay.

She wasn’t wearing her necklace. Perhaps she hadn’t liked the repair enough to accept it. Or wished to avoid the memories associated with its breakage. Of course there were other reasons she may have rejected the jewelry, none of which were helpful to contemplate at the moment. Thrawn decided not to mention it.

_Eyes heavy, color pale, skin heated._

“You must be hungry.” One hand caught her dangling arm’s elbow, body language for a half-hearted defense.

“The food is for you,” he answered. Thrawn took a cautious step towards her, in the direction of the bedroom. 

Pryce appeared to consider, the right side of her lower lip disappearing under the upper.

“It smells good,” she finally said, and turned around. Thrawn followed, setting the tray on the end of the bed when they arrived and pouring the drink.

“That wine doesn’t smell so great, though,” she added, reaching for a glass and taking a cross-legged seat on the mattress.

“It may not taste “so great” either,” Thrawn admitted with a fleeting smile. “But our menu options are limited.”

Pryce had already taken a sip, wrinkling her nose. Then took another. 

“Not bad, actually.” She relaxed then, stretching out her legs. As Thrawn picked up the other glass, Pryce lifted hers in his direction, scarlet liquid swirling close to the rim.

“How come you never tie the healing knot on your own robe?”

Looking down at his waist, Thrawn drank, silently agreeing with her assessment of the alcohol. It wasn’t bad. Not “so great,” but better than merely drinkable.

“I admit it had not occurred to me to do so.” It hadn't, most likely because he'd never heard of a Chiss tying it for themselves. However, that didn't mean it couldn't—or shouldn't—be done. He set the glass back on the tray and picked up the ends of the cloth belt.

“No.” Pryce got to her feet, standing in front of him. “Teach me how to do it.”

Thrawn indicated her loosely tied robe. “Like this,” he said, and undid the simple knot she had made, fingers skimming the smooth skin between the robe’s open halves. Slowly, checking that she was following, he made the loops. One end across the other, a circle around the opposite tie—not unlike the infinity rings on her necklace, now that he thought of it—back under the bottom, a second loop slightly smaller than the first, secured by a final twist around the original.

Avoiding his eyes, Pryce reached for his belt, the thicker material pulled tight against his waist. She reproduced the healing knot flawlessly on the first try.

“Perfect, Arihnda.”

_Slight flush, temperature fluctuating. Her brow lines, relaxes._

“I like knots, actually. I learned a few growing up.” She shrugged. "Caving."

“That explains it,” he agreed, still impressed, and sat closer to her than originally planned. They didn’t speak as she ate. Both emptied their glasses and Thrawn poured refills. The silence wasn’t exactly comfortable, but neither of them seemed ready for more.

Pryce broke first. “Did the emdee test you?”

“Yes, evidence of progress. I have a viral load of approximately 42,000.” Thrawn had learned Pryce didn’t share his love of numerical detail where this virus was concerned. And given her mood, he decided not to press the issue of her test refusal.

“That’s good.”

She finished the casserole along with the second serving of wine, and set the tray on the floor. One hand dipped into her medrobe’s pocket, taking out the necklace. At first Pryce said nothing, letting the links slide repeatedly through her fingers like the galaxy’s most precious strand of Gabdorin beads. Thrawn watched without a word, anticipating some complaint or censure.

“The clasp is different.”

He kept his silence. She could have it fixed like it was before, if she preferred. Later. Thrawn questioned his own instinct in having it done here, on the shuttle, in the midst of her trauma and convalescence. He’d foolishly thought it might be a comfort to her, to wear something that she obviously valued enough to keep hidden beneath her Imperial uniform all these years.

“I couldn’t figure it out.” Her chin lifted, eyes finding his. Thrawn crossed his arms, uncertain. “How to put it on.” She held out the strand to him. It shook slightly between her fingers. He stared. Impatient, Pryce flapped it towards him. “Can you?”

“I believe so.” The reply was automatic. Hiding his surprise, Thrawn took the jewelry, fingertips brushing hers at the transfer. He traced the intricate links until the pad of his thumb felt the tell-tale bump of the added clasp. It was counter-intuitive to open, requiring the interlocked lemniscates to stack—pushing them together to pull them apart. Spreading his fingers so she could see, he demonstrated the technique for her to replicate, but Pryce turned away and lifted her hair.

Thrawn raised it over her head and secured it deftly at her nape, tugging gently once to make sure it was well-locked. The droid had done quality work; now the clasp was indiscernible from the rest of the infinity loops.

She pat the chain as if to confirm it was real. “Thank you.”

“It suits you.” 

It was true. The dark, steely polish of the doonium conveyed strength and endurance, things Pryce embodied, yet the lace-like threading of the material held an illusion of fragility that dared the viewer to test its weaknesses. And the design itself, the interwoven symbols of infinity, were at first glance simplistic, but upon examination the skillful artistry required to create such perfect, unending links had to be acknowledged as both masterful and beautiful. Thrawn’s opinion of Pryce’s parents’ tastes was elevated by the knowledge that they had gifted their daughter such an elegant and timeless treasure.

Ignoring his compliment, Pryce tumbled onto the bed with a sigh. “So now what do we do?”

Thrawn knew the question could be sourced in any number of issues, and decided to select the most innocuous.

“Are you bored?”

Nodding at the ceiling, Pryce stretched her arms overhead and let them fall bonelessly back on the sheet.

“Shall we spar?”

That got her attention. Pryce sat up like a shot, then wobbled off-balance. She steadied herself, then asked “Spar? Like…in the dojo?”

Thrawn nodded. “Perhaps not such a good suggestion now, however, due to the wine.” Her wobble had been noted.

She laughed. “What’s the matter? Think your drunken reflexes can’t handle me?”

His smile was real, but tight-lipped. “That is one possibility.”

Laughing harder, Pryce stumbled to her feet. “And here I thought you lacked diplomatic skills. What a response.” She pointed at him, grinning. “You think you can beat me!”

Thrawn also stood, amused but wary. “I do.”

“With sticks?” 

He remembered her considerable skill with stickfighting and agreed. “If we can find something to use for that purpose.”

~~

They hadn’t found sticks. Pryce had, quite ingeniously, she thought, proposed disassembling some medical equipment—such as the auto-IV and EKG—to use the agrinium pole supports. After all, they were almost out of the viral danger zone, and the likelihood of requiring these machines in the next few days was slim to none. They would just be burned with the shuttle anyway. Thrawn, ever the buzzkill, had pointed out that they would have to engage in serious metalworking to make it feasible—to balance length and girth and even trim for equal weight.

So they had returned to the bedroom, plan thwarted.

“Besides,” Thrawn added, sitting on the edge of the bed, “it would be a shame to have one of us once more in a plasticast.”

That, more than his other arguments, convinced Pryce. Agrinium was light, but still a metal alloy that could break bones. Since her cast had come off, she’d felt less an invalid, and they had progressed far beyond _ttoheti_ in the Chiss erotic compendium. Fracturing something would seriously limit her ability to match Thrawn’s athleticism and creativity. She didn’t know how competitive the Grand Admiral was at the dojo, but perhaps now wasn’t the best time to find out.

“Fine,” she sighed, rolling her eyes at her companion. “Nice job getting out of it.”

“There is always hand-to-hand combat,” Thrawn replied, a quirk of his lips demonstrating his opinion of that option. She considered. Wrestling in bed might be fun…but she would definitely lose. And while there may be certain benefits to that outcome, she wanted to beat him at something.

“I just can’t believe, with all your strategic thinking skills, Grand Admiral, you didn’t plot for anything to pass the time.”

“An inexcusable failure which I regret. ”

She peered at Thrawn’s face, trying to see a trace of humor. Not a single wrinkle creased, not a pore out of place. He was excellent at maintaining absolute inexpression. And that, Pryce decided, was as good a challenge as any. She would make him crack, break through that façade.

“We could…” she started, leaning closer and waving a hand in front of his eyes as if he were an Imperial Royal Guard. Thrawn smiled for a fraction of a second.

“I win.”

The commonly arched eyebrow climbing higher on his forehead. “You win?”

“You smiled.”

“That was the game?”

Nodding with delight, she straightened, only to have Thrawn yank her down into his lap. 

“You won through cheating, then. I was not informed of the rules nor the start of the game.”

Squirming, she spun around in his arms. “I didn’t cheat!”

“Then another game?”

“Let me go.” His arms relaxed, but Pryce decided to stay where she was. He had surrendered more easily than she expected. But it wasn’t uncomfortable on his knees, and it wasn’t like she hadn’t sat there before. “Fine,” she pouted, “another game.”

“The rules?”

“We drink mediocre wine and you answer my questions.”

Thrawn glanced to the half-empty carafe on the tray. “How does one win this game?”

Pryce scowled, leaving the loose circle of his arms. Desire was singing in her chest, buzzing in her ears. She needed a distraction. Walking over to the bottle, she poured more for both of them. “Why do you always have to win?”

“If the objective of the game is lose, Arihnda,” Thrawn said mildly, accepting the glass she offered, “I will endeavor to do so.”

“Forget it,” she grumbled, pacing the room. Why did he have to be so even-tempered? She took another swig of the Mandalorian wine and held it before swallowing. The liquid stung pleasantly, her tongue savoring the smooth texture while her taste buds sizzled. It was better than she remembered, but the fact annoyed her more than anything. They should have been drinking substandard alcohol since Day One, she thought unreasonably, scuffing her feet on the deck.

There was too much insatiable energy bubbling in her veins. Sparring would have been the perfect solution. Now, without that outlet, it seemed like forever until their next scheduled ‘treatment.’ She wanted—needed—him to fuck her, and it wasn’t _time_. It would be superfluous, purposeless, and purely hedonistic. Feeling like she was about to crawl out of her skin, Pryce walked faster, spine stiffening.

“Arihnda.” Thrawn’s voice was low, but firm. “No games are required to ask me questions.” She spun on her bare heel and continued pacing, avoiding his eyes. “What do you want to know?”

She pretended to think, finger tapping against her lips before words burst forth. She hadn’t consciously acknowledged what was bothering her, but obviously her secret fears were much closer to the surface than she’d anticipated.

“Whom would _you_ have picked?” 

The question was out, suspended in the air between them like an empty gibbet—nothing good could fill its blighted space. Too late to retract or erase the words, Pryce looked angrily at the wine in her glass. The drink wasn't really to blame for her behavior, yet she almost wished it were. She took another sip, senses following the slide of warm liquid down her throat. 

Tormenting herself with hypotheticals wasn't new, but too many had been eating at her since their quarantine had begun. It was just her luck that this particular query jumped eagerly from her brain rather than something slightly less exposing, less illustrative of her own insecurities. And the way she had phrased it...Pryce wanted to groan. Too late to take it back, and now she would have to expound.

“To survive the Firrerrean plague?”

She jerked her chin down in a harsh assent, still avoiding his gaze, and continued pacing the short length of the room. Should have figured he wouldn't need clarification. He was like a mind reader sometimes, and what _else_ could she be asking, really? 

Thrawn stood, intercepting her trajectory. He was more formidable than anyone had a right to be in a bathrobe. Pryce glared at him for blocking her route. It was difficult; she didn't _want_ to look at him, and didn't want to be seen after so carelessly revealing her mind. Her own defiance couldn't match the oppressive pull of his stare. It imprisoned. A shiver crept over her scalp when Thrawn spoke, his deep voice soaked in displeasure.

“You are seeking confrontation. I have witnessed this pattern before, Arihnda, and I am not fool enough to fall for it now. If I tell you the truth…” Her breath caught but there was a glint of warning in his crimson eyes, something that told her Thrawn was close to some edge and she shouldn’t push. “…you will dismiss the answer as patronizing, and ask me for another. Which will then inspire anger and pointless recrimination.”

“So arrogant?” Scorn glazed her words, a weapon against the unnerving look on his face. “Thinking I’d be jealous if you said you’d rather fuck Faro? Or fucked _anyone_ else?” She felt spiteful without knowing why, wanting him to stop her, shut her up before she said something unforgivable. “You know me that well?”

“I know myself that well,” he snapped. “And thought you knew me better.”

“Answer the question.”

“As you wish it answered?” He was seething, chest rising and falling in agitation. Pryce wondered if the emotion Thrawn was suppressing was anger, disgust, frustration, or something worse. The flames of his eyes flickered and pulsed, as if an unknowable war was being waged behind his stare. “I would choose you.”

“And if you couldn’t? If I refused?”

Thrawn shook his head, shattering his empty glass with a hard pitch to the wall. Pryce froze, a sliver of fear chilling the heat in her veins. Meaning to provoke was one thing, but she hadn’t actually thought she would succeed. Thrawn had always had the sangfroid of a statue; she’d seen him face death at five meters without breaking a sweat.

Still he didn’t speak.

“Answer me!” She couldn’t stop, the demand obstinate, her heart pounding. 

“You would not refuse.” 

Pryce’s mouth fell open, about to challenge him. The paradox—hating herself for driving him to this but guilty satisfaction at cracking his composure, was as bizarre as it was frightening. But she couldn’t back down. She wouldn’t cede territory he’d already surrendered.

“Arihnda.” Thrawn stalked to her, towering above. Stars he was tall—something easily remedied when both of them were horizontal, but at the moment, Pryce thought she would get vertigo from the height difference.

“Here is the truth—whether or not you like the answer.” He gripped her shoulder with his left hand, ran his thumb along her jawline with the other. “If I were aware of the risk, that I would infect you with a deadly illness, I _would_ have chosen someone else. I would never—will never—knowingly or willingly _hurt_ you.” 

He ignored her narrowed eyes and continued, the strength of his fingers bruising, a contradictory punctuation to his promise. “If I, as you, remained ignorant of the danger to my preferred partner, I _would_ have chosen _you_.”

“Oh.” Nothing else came out—she was weak, disquieted and aflame. Nascent indignation at his first pronouncement—that he wouldn’t have let her save him knowing the danger—was already tempered by the second.

Thrawn's thumb pressed against her lips and Pryce forgot to breathe. The hand at her shoulder left her abruptly. Too abruptly. Thrawn seized the glass she was holding, and, like an afterthought, casually smashed it against the wall as he had with his own.

“Now…” His long fingers were back at her throat, fanning open to frame her head between them. “…you want me to throw you on the bed and fuck you harder than you have ever been fucked.” Pryce couldn’t escape his gaze. His too-observant eyes saw into her, through her. There was no point in denying it. “Correct?”

“Yes—" He silenced her with a kiss, lips as bruising as his fingers had been. Anything else she wanted to complain about was wiped from her mind as Thrawn made good on his threat. She landed almost perfectly centered on the mattress. Thrawn leapt atop, tearing the robe from her body as if they were hours behind schedule instead of hours ahead. He didn’t bother to remove his, feet spreading her ankles wide. Trapping her wrists in one hand, he pinned her, but she pushed back, forcing him to use both to hold her still. 

His tongue whipped against her skin, his fingers iron clamping her bones. Pryce bucked against his weight, the thin chain jumping on her neck, taking satisfaction at how he had to shift to keep her immobile. She definitely would have lost at hand-to-hand sparring, but not without landing a few hits. Biting at his mouth, Pryce gasped as Thrawn pushed deep, one brutal thrust. The feel of him, combined with the power and force restraining her, danced on the edge of pain, and she relished it. He’d lost control, he was controlling, everything was confusing and sweet and perilous. It was exactly what she needed.

He was right, she wanted this. Wanted _him_ , and wanted everything else to disappear. Thrawn succeeded at that, as he did at most things. His hands released her, slid down her forearms as his lips left her mouth to punish her breasts, rolling her nipples between his teeth and answering each cry from her throat with a bite. He fucked her as promised—a furious, desperate rhythm she couldn’t track. 

The scrape of his teeth against her skin was stern, delivering a reprimand. She twisted under Thrawn’s body, her own lips trying to match his in ferocity. He was _marking_ her. Pryce vowed to do the same, sucking at his throat. The taste of him was dark and intoxicating, pulsing along her tongue as she latched on to heated skin. They tangled and twined, one knee sliding under hers to hold her open, one hand fisting in her hair, wrenching back her neck for his counterattack. Pryce scratched his shoulderblades, her fingernails her only weapon against the violence of his kiss. As his tongue pressed back into her mouth, she arched, senses overwhelmed with wetness, heat, and delicious torture as he pounded deeper, frenzied. Her hands moved down to his ass, drawing him close, clawing at his muscles as her legs wrapped tighter around his thighs.

“Harder?” he whispered, the word sending a torrent of heat straight to her clit.

“Fuck you,” Pryce taunted, fingers curving into the lines of him, digging into his body.

“So…yes,” Thrawn smiled above her, and despite the madness of their fucking, the strange mixture of passion and rage they had concocted, she had never felt so adored. It made no sense, but nothing really did, and she smiled back as everything was reduced to his kiss, his cock, and his touch. There was a ceremonial aspect to this Pryce didn’t understand, and didn’t need to. She trusted him to finish the ritual, accepting what little she could offer him, fixing the broken parts of her.

Her muscles turned liquid as Thrawn drove faster, the contours of his alien cock climbing the walls of her cunt, slamming into exactly the right places. Pryce felt the moment of absolute capitulation—her biceps refused to tense, her hands fell to the sides, her neck sank into the pillow, and her legs fell apart as her insides clenched so tightly it verged on pain. The orgasm that followed this ascent _did_ hurt—a shimmering cataclysm that was cliché in its perfection. This warped, confrontational communion, however perverse its origins, was pure ecstasy. Succumbing to it, to Thrawn, might be a mistake, but Pryce no longer cared enough to remediate the error, if she were even capable. 

She sighed his name when his heat flooded her, and, for the next six hours, slept in his arms.

_ Quarantine Day Twelve _

“22,000?” Pryce repeated the news, incredulous. “Really? Are you sure?”

“Quite certain, Governor.” The emdee drew itself straighter, insulted. “As with all serology analyses since the start of your quarantine period, I double-checked my findings before confirmation.”

She could hardly believe it. They were out of danger. It was true that neither she nor Thrawn had displayed symptoms for days now, but to hear the cold hard facts was something else. Her pulse was pounding, her extremities numb at the news.

“Grand Admiral Thrawn’s viral load is even lower,” it assured her. “Completely asymptomatic and without, according to my latest assessment, any possibility of passing on the infection.”

“How low would that be?” Thrawn entered the small mess area along with his question, hair damp. They had recently indulged in a particularly physical “treatment,” and while post-coital sustenance was Pryce’s priority, the sonic had been his.

The droid turned to him stiffly. “Precisely 14,250 point 662, sir. Well below the thirty thousand level already established as benign.”

With a nod indicating he had heard, Thrawn moved to order some caf, leaning against the ship’s hull and crossing his arms. He smiled at Pryce, saying nothing. 

After two weeks, she still wasn’t used to this version of him: casual, relaxed, but still somehow commanding, projecting authority through a filter of ease. His robe hung open, giving her an excellent view of his chest, among other things—the expanse of muscle no less impressive than the first time she’d seen it. The fact of his beauty, and her attraction to him, was ever-present, but now hit like a punch to the gut.

They didn’t have to fuck anymore.

The concentration of virus would continue to drop on its own, no longer requiring sexual dilution. That was the upshot of this “good news.” An involuntary scowl crossed her lips, ridiculous, and quickly controlled, but Pryce knew Thrawn would have seen it, catalogued it. His attentiveness had its downsides.

“Arihnda—” Ignoring the caf that had exited the synth, Thrawn took a step towards her.

She put on a smile that felt a rictus, blood pulsing in her temples, a headache incipient. What to say? “Wonderful news!”? “Finally!”? “Good thing we went out with a bang!”? Absurdly close to tears at being told she was guaranteed to survive, Pryce shook her head at Thrawn’s overture. She couldn’t think anymore, couldn’t stay here and have him give some sort of token thanks for her cooperation, exchange congratulations for their successful defeat of certain death.

Backing up, her elbow hit the edge of the doorframe. Pryce winced at the jarring sting as it radiated through her arm. Thrawn was before her, having moved too fast for her escape.

“I hope you will not think me paranoid,” he said, and the start of his sentence trebled her already racing heart, “but unless you object, I would suggest we complete the full, prescribed course of treatment.”

His eyes blazed brighter than she could remember seeing them, trapping hers in their heat. For the first time, Pryce thought they could actually burn her—as if he had some sort of ridiculous laser setting that would send rays of fire through her skin, boiling her blood and melting her bones.

“If…” The word sounded like an echo of itself, distant. Clearing her throat, Pryce tried again. “If you think it best.”

“I do.”

“Until the viral load is zero?”

“Yes.”

As quickly as that misplaced despair had shadowed her mind and crushed her lungs, it fled. In its place, something weightless and nameless, far more powerful. It devoured her worries and misery with an appetite that didn’t allow for doubt or analysis. Already the memory of her reaction to the emdee’s news had fragmented, exiled by Thrawn’s words, burnt into ashes by his gaze.

“Of course. That makes sense.”

A small, brief smile, so quick it barely touched his lips, rewarded her assent.

“Thank you, Arihnda.” Quickly retrieving his caf, Thrawn was once again at her side, head tilted towards the portal she’d failed to escape through. “Perhaps a celebration is nonetheless in order?”

“We’re already in the kitchen, Thrawn,” she answered. Milestones in their recoveries had been often marked with what passed for gourmet food on the Lambda.

“I had a different menu in mind.” He drained the drink in one go and handed the mug to the surprised emdee as if it were a server in a tapcafé.

“Does Thrawn mean “insatiable,” in your language?” Pryce sighed in mock resignation, accepting his hand as they walked back to the sleeping quarters.

Thrawn licked his lips like a lothwolf, then scooped her into his arms and carried her over the threshold to the bed.“Perhaps, if we are inventing new definitions,” he allowed, shrugging out of his robe and reaching to undo hers. “Then Ar’inh’da means…”

The exotic, foreign pronunciation of her name made it sound even more lovely than usual on his tongue. And that tongue quickly made it clear what meaning he assigned to her name, diving into _k’ta ch’in’he’ah_ like it was his favorite dessert.


	10. Release

_Quarantine Day Thirteen _

As usual, Thrawn woke before Pryce. One would think she was different when she slept—expect tranquility or stillness on her features. Instead, the peaks of her cheekbones, the thin press of her lips, and the pointed lines of her jaw seemed to emphasize the turbulence that fostered the passionate and mercurial whirlwind within. She still wore the necklace, its unending web resting softly against her sharp collarbones. Thrawn thought it likely that she always would wear it, and wondered why he’d never noticed its line beneath her tunic in the past.

The scheduled arrival prep comm with the _Chimaera_ was soon. Too soon to delay any longer, no matter how tempting the scenery. Extricating his arm from beneath Pryce’s sleeping form, Thrawn headed to the sonic. He was surprised when a minute later the stall door slid open.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning,” Pryce yawned, stepping alongside and reaching to turn up the temperature. “I thought maybe I would join your comm.”

It wasn’t exactly a question, but given her phrasing, assent felt necessary. “Certainly.”

_Eyes heavy, arms languid, legs stiff. Leaning towards him._

“I don’t have any clothes though. I wore your medbay robe for the last one.”

“You do. I brought regulation standards from the _Chimaera_.” He smiled briefly, rinsing away suds from his hair. “And that is my personal robe, not medical issue.”

Pryce seemed uncomfortable at this news, shifting on her feet and averting her eyes. Thrawn couldn’t determine which piece of information caused the reaction. He supposed Faro, having seen him in his sleep pants, may have recognized the matching color over the comm. Doubtful, but possible. Still, Pryce wouldn’t know that, or have reason to care.

Thrawn attempted to assuage whatever unfounded concerns she had related to appearance or style. 

“Your size was available in supply.” Surely she would not find it upsetting he knew her proportions? They had known one another for years, and it would be more unusual, to Thrawn’s mind, to not have a general idea of her requirements. It was likely many of his crew could have estimated with similar accuracy; Pryce was often aboard his Star Destroyer. “The clothes are utilitarian, however, nothing suitable for a public appearance.”

“You think of everything, don’t you?”

Something about the tone made him wonder if it was a genuine question, an insult, or pure observation. Before he could decide, Pryce kissed him, her mouth hot as the sonic’s spray. Thrawn moved closer as she turned around, rubbing her ass against his hardening cock. His hands cupped her breasts, pulling her tight to his chest.

“The comm is in fifteen minutes, Arihnda.”

“It’s called a quickie, Thrawn,” she imitated his delivery, a hint of mischief tinging the words—no trace of her recent discomfort. Leaning her head back into his shoulder, Pryce pressed harder into his erection. Thrawn wouldn’t have been able to deny her, even if he had been inclined to try. 

“Understood.”

~~

Fourteen minutes later, hair damp and slicked back, Thrawn in his whites and Pryce in service greys, they settled in the cockpit and waited for the comm to connect.

“Good morning Grand Admiral Thrawn, Governor Pryce.”

Faro looked more tired than usual, Pryce thought uncharitably, and gave no sign that her presence for the call was out of the ordinary. As they exchanged pleasantries, the commander seemed to brighten. Clearly the nearing prospect of Thrawn’s return—and its accompanying effect on her workload—was encouraging. Pryce observed without a sound as Thrawn listened attentively to reports on the mundane and necessary, trying to see him through the eyes of a crewmember or subordinate. It was a hopeless task—their relationship had never allowed for that type of perspective, and now that she had seen him so…completely, it was beyond impossible. Yet, as Thrawn requested more information about some administrative problem delaying a squad captain’s transfer, Pryce easily understood the respect they had for him, the trust they placed in his leadership. 

Thrawn looked the way he always did, effortlessly in charge. Perhaps his hair was a little longer, his trenchant aura softened. Pryce’s eyes were drawn to the pulse in his neck, the outlined artery that she liked to trace with her tongue. The taste of his skin was familiar now, all his intimate sensitivities well-learned. Her thighs clenched, the rush of need between her legs intoxicating.

 _I’m fucking Grand Admiral Thrawn,_ Pryce thought stupidly, the revelation appearing like an old piece of data that only now had been processed by a virus-addled brain. Only she wasn’t just fucking him—she was falling asleep in his arms, kissing him incessantly, mastering his erogenous zones, expanding her own… 

“Sir, there is one more thing. A confidential comm from the Imperial Security Bureau.”

Faro’s announcement further delayed Pryce’s underdeveloped epiphany. It forced her to turn to face the holocomm, highlighting the fact she had been staring at Thrawn, not the woman on the other end of the call. All standard reports had been delivered and it was time for more secretive communiqués. 

“Colonel Yularen instructed for me to await orders after receipt, so if you don’t mind reading it now...” Faro looked briefly at Pryce. “He did mark it ‘Eyes Only’ for the Grand Admiral, apologies Governor.”

Pryce stood up, finding herself almost glad for the reprieve, although curious as to the message’s contents. “It’s quite all right, Commander. I know how particular the ISB is about these things. Have a good day.”

~~

Thrawn watched Pryce leave, suspecting she would lurk in the corridor. A moment later, Yularen’s transmitted message popped up on the console, requesting a clearance code to decrypt. Thrawn tapped in his security bureau-issued access, the written comm lighting up the screen:

_TIMED DELIVERY: 4 standard minutes before expiration_

_Grand Admiral: I trust this communication finds you well. As you are no doubt aware of official reports, I will simply congratulate you on your successful rendezvous with Governor Pryce and ask you to give her my warm regards. I have been briefed regarding your scheduled return._

_Regrettably, however, the ISB has placed the Chimaera next in line for dry dock counter-surveillance sweeps and decontamination. For a period of two standard weeks, we require a rotational evacuation of the ship to conduct sensitive operations. Due to your absence, I believed it most convenient to first implement protocols in the command center, bridge, and operations deck. I hope this is not too great of a burden to you or your crew._

_Of course, should you wish to extend your long-overdue and richly-deserved leave, this would be an excellent opportunity._

_With best wishes,_

_W. Yularen_

_XTS/SCI authorization 07628_

Thrawn read it twice, scanned a final time, and pressed the button to destroy. 

There was nothing secret in the comm. The point of its classification level had been merely to inform the recipient that Yularen’s clearance was sufficient to access not only the truth behind the Firrerrean plague, but more importantly, understand exactly what had been done to keep Pryce alive. Thrawn allowed himself a thin smile. The Colonel was an ally, and the ISB didn’t need this information. There was nothing particularly scandalous about a high-ranking member of the Imperial Navy sleeping with a politician. In fact, it seemed the message had been intended to reassure rather than threaten. 

“Sir?” Faro was awaiting his response, if any, to transmit. Thrawn pulled his mind back to the relevant facts.

“Commander, have you received dry dock orders from Coruscant?”

“Yessir. Unfortunate timing.” Her tone suggested the opposite.

Thrawn’s smile tightened. Apparently he was not as opaque as he had believed when it came to personal entanglements.

“I trust you to work with Personnel on the optimum rotational schedule to allow for an equitable division of leave in coordination with ISB operations.”

“Yessir.”

“Please do not neglect to include yourself, Commander Faro. I will return slightly later than anticipated, but will command planetside.”

“Of course sir, thank you.” She paused. “The burn shuttle—”

“Will be detonated via slave circuit as planned.”

“Very good. And your location after?”

_Lips twitching, eyes tense at the corners, throat flexed._

Faro was trying not to smile.

“Reachable on comm, Commander.” Thrawn kept his tone even. “In keeping with the established quarantine protocols, I will personally deliver the Governor to her official residence for the required isolation.”

“Understood, Grand Admiral.”

_Mouth pursed, jaw shifting._

“Was there something else Commander Faro?” The woman looked about to burst.

“No sir. Have a good afternoon.”

The closing pleasantry wasn’t typical of his XO.

“You as well. Thrawn out.” After the comm disconnected, Thrawn closed his eyes, centering his thoughts. He had nowhere to be, nothing to do for the next sixteen days. It seemed a ridiculous amount of free time.

Spinning around in the comm station chair, Thrawn called out, “Arihnda. Please join me.”

Seconds later, she was there. His instincts had been correct.

“I presume you heard that?”

_Jugular vein pulsing, lips thinned, fingers clenched, unclenching._

“I heard. So Yularen knows.”

Thrawn nodded. She was smart, just one of the things he liked about working with Pryce. “Undoubtedly.”

“Sounds like he’s offering you a vacation.” Thrawn tilted his head in question at her assumption. “From me,” she clarified.

“I believe he has something more like a honeymoon in mind,” Thrawn answered, not really surprised at her self-deprecating interpretation, and enjoying Pryce’s shock at his words.

_Forehead stretched, eyes widen, neck muscles tense._

“Of course, you did not read the comm, but using words such as ‘congratulate’, sending _you_ his ‘warm regards’, calling this a ‘rendezvous’ and ‘long-overdue and richly deserved’ implies approval and reads more like a personal note than official notification.”

“How wonderful,” her voice dripped poison, “to have the Colonel’s permission to fuck one another.”

“Arihnda.” Thrawn’s tone was firm.

“When you say my name like that, I regret ever suggesting the informality,” she snarled.

Standing, Thrawn approached but Pryce backed up, almost into the corridor. Her hands were clenched.

“Arihnda,” he said again, differently, gentler.

“That isn’t much better.”

“Ar’ihn’da…”

“Now that sounds like you just want something.”

Before she could escape, Thrawn’s hand shot out, gripping her fist and pulling her tight to his chest.

“I do want something.”

“Thrawn...”

He smiled. “When _you_ say my name like that, I am pleased at the informality.”

Pryce rolled her eyes and let out an exasperated grunt. “What _do_ you want?”

“I want a honeymoon.”

_Pupils dilate, breath catching, jaw slack._

“We’re not married.”

“Is that a prerequisite?”

“Yes.”

Thrawn paused, a mistake, clearly. Pryce yanked her hand from his, shook free of his arms, and headed out of the cockpit without another word.

~~-

Yularen knew. Probably Faro knew. Even the sithspawned _Emperor_ must know, or would as soon as he found out Thrawn had come personally to her rescue. Pryce couldn’t think, desperately wanting to run away to the sanctity of the sonic and its erratic, antiquated spray, but they had just showered and Thrawn would surely see that for what it was—cowardice. 

The murder of it all was that when she’d heard Thrawn’s side of the comm, when he’d said he would return “slightly later,” her heart had skipped a beat like a teenager catching the eye of her crush. Thrawn was _hers_ , he had stated it plainly, simply, so why did she still have a hard time believing it? Accepting it? He wouldn’t offer her “false hope,” he’d suggested as much with the necklace.

And then…

A _honeymoon_. Thrawn’s declaration had stunned. Preposterous and wonderful, the very idea. They could quarantine at her estate, hidden from the world for another two weeks. Only without the threat of imminent death to force intimacy, knowing they were together because they wished to be... Eating real food, not shipboard synthslop, and exploring every sexual position in the galaxy without blood tests and talk of viral loads, nosological vectors, or infectious dynamics.

Pryce wasn’t blind to her own idiocy: her reactions to Thrawn’s advances were rooted in fear. Yes, she loved him. She wasn’t sure when her raw attraction had become something more, but it had, and she had ignored the shift like she’d taught herself to ignore slights, barbs, and obstacles in her path throughout her life. If she couldn’t decimate it, or revenge herself upon it, she could deny its existence.

It probably shouldn’t be surprising that this methodology failed to work when the impediments were self-installed and the difficulties mostly imagined. 

Pryce stood in the center of the bedroom, directionless. Thrawn’s robe lay like a violent stain on the deck. Thoughts drummed her brain pitilessly, forcing contemplation as she futilely tried to extinguish them. She stared at the bed, unmade, sheets rumpled in a heap at one end. Evidence of what they had done together. Proof of what they _had_ together. She couldn’t focus, everything jumbled and jagged in her senses. 

She definitely wasn’t thinking clearly.

He’d saved her life. 

Just like she’d hoped—no, _expected_. She’d somehow known, blind and battered and broken, that Thrawn was her best chance for survival. That belief had carried her through the terror of abandonment, sustained her as she had waited in Firrerre’s plague-ridden night, so cold the tears had frosted to her eyelids. But nothing had prepared her for the revelation of Thrawn’s sacrifice, his ready acceptance of mortal risk to come to her aid. The flashback was too vivid, and Pryce felt like screaming at the involuntary recall: buried panic that had iced the marrow in her bones, crushing futility, inevitability upon hearing her location over the comm. A shudder ripped through her, and she pressed her forehead between her hands, as if the strength of her fingers could exile memory. She feared to know what Thrawn had bartered for her life; what prize or promise could have swayed the Emperor to lift his edict so one lowly politician could live to see another sunrise?

Thrawn wouldn’t hurt her—he’d been quite explicit about that. Pryce knew it was true. She could—and did—already trust him with all the hidden parts of her. He’d seen the irascible, the irrational, and the irritable shields she brandished against the galaxy. But he’d also slipped past these damaged defenses, probed her weaknesses. And instead of exploiting them, fortified her as surely as he’d fixed her jewelry. Thrawn accepted her failings without confrontation, treated her vulnerabilities as strengths. Rather than use knowledge against her, Thrawn guarded it. Guarded _her_.

It made no sense. Nothing made sense.

“Arihnda.”

Thrawn’s voice brought her back to herself. He was stealthy when he wished, and she hadn’t heard him come in. Pryce truly loved the way he said her name, normally—like something exotic and refined, the name of a rare mineral or precious jewel. But at this moment, it held the unmistakable air of command, a regimented order to the syllables. His pronunciation still made her weak, made the oxygen rush a little faster from her lungs, but she didn’t like it.

“Thrawn,” she ground out, turning to face him.

“We _must_ discuss this.”

Pryce threw up her hands and looked to the ceiling in frustration. “ _This_?! What is _this_?”

Thrawn’s eyes followed her gaze, then returned to her face, evidently confused by the drama of her gesticulation. “That is precisely the question. Likewise, if you wish to pretend there is no…” he paused, taking a step closer, “… _this_ , you must tell me that also.”

Was that what _he_ wanted? No, she was setting blast charges around her own happiness with thoughts like that. Thrawn had already told her what he wanted. It was her own doubt that kept fighting. She took a step to meet him, although they still seemed light years apart.

“Why must _I_ tell _you_? Why don’t _you_ tell me what “this” is?”

Red eyes narrowed and Thrawn stood straighter. It was an action that usually resulted in enhancing his intimidation factor, but at the moment, Pryce thought it had the opposite effect. 

“For the majority of our quarantine period, _you_ have dictated the terms of engagement, Arihnda.” Pryce looked hard at him, trying to discern his thoughts, already annoyed at the vocabulary he was using. So technical. So _impersonal_. “I am asking you to clarify your feelings about,” Thrawn flipped a hand at her, then back to his chest, “ _this_.” It was a gesture she recognized using herself before, days ago in bed, discussing the terminology for their relationship.

Pryce scoffed, tossing her head. “So now you want to know if the terms of engagement are…you know,” she spread her hands, “ _actual_ engagement?”

A beat of silence. Then…

“Are you suggesting marriage?” Thrawn’s question was delivered softly, a thermal detonator wrapped in silk.

“No.”

Her negation was too quick, but it was the only answer. It was crazy for a million different reasons, not to mention that she didn’t even know if Thrawn actually cared for her, felt wrongly indebted to her, or simply was considering some kind of personal alliance to consolidate the professional. They were allies, friends, and intimates, as he’d said. Not to mention extremely sexually compatible. Perhaps that was all he needed to settle down.

Pryce held her breath, waiting for Thrawn’s reaction. None came, his eyes relaxing, the lines at their edges softening, but no other sign that he’d heard. Maybe he was awaiting her reason? Had he just attempted to propose to her by suggesting she was proposing to him? Stars, he was too clever, too calm. And too confusing. She couldn’t _think_. How could she get the upper hand here? Pryce crossed her arms, her eyes suspicious slits. Yes, she could turn it around.

“Are _you_?”

A slow smile spread across his lips and Thrawn crossed the remaining distance between them. He held out a hand, palm up, but Pryce didn’t take it, unsure what he was offering. After almost two weeks of nakedness, to be clothed, facing one another in uniform, it seemed a particularly risqué gesture.

“No,” he said then, and, relieved, she slid her fingers into his. But Thrawn wasn’t done, his voice more gentle than she’d ever heard it. “Commitment does not require marriage. Honor is not confirmed by civic sanction.” He took a deep breath, searching her eyes. “And love need not be proclaimed to exist.”

Pryce knew he was right. All the obdurate fears that had been methodically stacked around her heart were dismantled with each word from his lips. She trusted him, and he knew it. And her loyalty to Thrawn was perhaps second only to herself. 

Was that enough?

Pryce looked into Thrawn’s unlined face, seeing all the subtle details that had become familiar over the past few days. And more importantly, seeing the truth of what could be written all over it.

No, it wasn’t enough. Thrawn deserved more. But she didn’t know how to give it to him. That was the only fear that remained. She looked to their joined hands as if they transmitted a code she couldn’t decipher. But perhaps _that_ was a signal, as Thrawn took her other hand, then guided both to his shoulders, squeezing once before releasing her, dropping his fingers to her hips.

Her joints flexed, denting the rough material of his uniform. Pryce stared at her own knuckles, avoiding his eyes, all too conscious of his closeness. Everything was horribly, magnificently serious, the atmosphere weighted, her partially-recovered lung reminding her of ongoing challenges to breathe. Resisting the moment wasn’t in her best interests, but Pryce _wanted_ to argue, struggling to summon that fortifying irritation that served like a well-worn blaster in her emotional arsenal. 

Thrawn was always such a self-assured bastard, composed and certain, and she was entirely the opposite, flailing and unsure.

There seemed only one way to prove him wrong, his last sentence still ringing in her ears.

“I love you.”

It came out like a retort, before she could stop it—her insidious, chronic urge to be contrary, rebutting his words. And that was not what she had meant to say at all. At _all_. Seven hells.

~~

_Lower eyelid tensing, fingers constricting against his tunic, heat spreading rapidly across her throat._

Thrawn was not ignorant of the protocol here—he must answer quickly. More relieved than amazed at her confession, his mind forced simplicity over precision for a response. He didn’t _need_ Pryce to admit she loved him, as he had just tried to explain. However he could acknowledge he had wanted her to, her admission staggering. But the most critical thing now, given her words, was to reciprocate.

“And I love you.”

_Brow furrowed, skeptical. Pulse slowing, hands relaxing._

Not the reaction he expected. His declaration seemed to have calmed her rather than excited, while Pryce’s three simple words still echoed in his brain like thundering waves from a calving glacier crashing into the sea. Thrawn didn’t wish to discuss “this” any longer, hammer out terms or negotiate their future like it was a treaty or accord. Pryce loved him, and wanted him as he wished to be wanted. That was the end of it—the only detail that mattered.

“I know,” she muttered, shaking her head as if contradicting herself.

“Of course you know,” Thrawn replied, his arms wrapping her waist, drawing her to him.

Pryce’s hands moved from his shoulders lower, arms slipping behind, wrists locked around his torso. Her head settled against his sternum, dark, still-damp hair brushing against his neck. Thrawn brought up one hand to rest against her back. His only wish was to keep her as close as possible, for as long as possible.

Arihnda Pryce had said she loved him. 

Stepped into his embrace, held him in the wake of her proclamation. 

She truly was unpredictable.

Thrawn didn’t move, content at the solidness of the woman in his arms, the sound of her respiration—soft and uneven—as the heat of her breath warmed the dense material of his tunic. He tried to imagine what she could be thinking, plan for a response. Pryce never seemed happy except when waging a personal war, whether against a real or imagined enemy. What did this admission change for her? Nothing? Everything? As long as they could stay like this, he had time to come up with ideas, possibilities, strategies. 

Because in truth, Thrawn had no idea how to proceed.

They had been together, in one another’s arms, every few hours for almost two weeks. But that meeting of bodies, feverish and needful, was vastly different than this. This was overpowering, incontrovertible, and marvelously satisfying. Happiness flowed like starlight in his blood, and Thrawn felt utterly, ineffably undone.

“It’s why you rescued me…” Her words were muffled by his uniform.

“Yes.”

“Did you…” Lifting her neck, Pryce’s blue eyes held questions. She swallowed hard, then clenched her jaw. “Did you _plan_ this? Plan to…” She didn’t finish and Thrawn found himself wishing she would, just to hear the bizarre theory articulated. It seemed Pryce thought that his shrewd machinations might extend to romancing her to this end.

Her opinion of his potential for strategic seduction was flattering, but undeserved. Thrawn shook his head then, lips brushing her temple. 

“The only plan was to find you.”

_Flush departing, pulse stabilizing. Her mouth parts and pupils sharpen._

Thrawn waited, recognizing that Pryce had come to a decision, some resolution calming her blood and soothing her insecurities.

“ _Bazrav’evi,”_ she said, firmly. “It isn’t the right word.”

Thrawn smiled at her insistence and nodded in agreement.

“ _Ch’acert_.” 

The term held magic, a meaning that broke free of its pronunciation, promise and desire and devotion in each syllable. 

“ _Ch’acert_ ,” Pryce repeated, carefully.

“Do you require a translation?” Thrawn asked, weaving her fingers in his and lifting them to his lips.

“No,” she smiled back, imitating his gesture. “I think I got it.”

Since that awkward first time, their kisses had known eloquence beyond language, banishing obstacles to intimacy, cutting through fogs of misery and guilt, and transcending established boundaries. This new love had the power to dissolve the past itself; everything became immediate and timeless, a sparkling ocean to explore and drown in. And when the emdee came to interrupt six hours later, they were still lost in its waters.

  
  


_Epilogue: Day 399_

The darkness was intense—all windows in the gubernatorial mansion were treated with the most light-sensitive and expensive blaster-proof transparisteel. Pryce quickly spoke the voice controls for the low lights—her tolerance for the luxury of pitch black had diminished greatly since her ordeal on Firrerre. Something had awoken her…

Thrawn’s footsteps on the Tatooinean silica-glazed ceramic of her hallway floors were unmistakable, although rarer as of late. He had most recently deployed to Fest, eliminating all remaining insurrectionist elements tied to the deadly attack on her transport. 

Diplomatically, Thrawn had commended Admiral Konstantine and his crew for furrowing out and scattering the Rebels, while privately she had helped him concoct an appropriate excuse to visit Moff Seerdon’s weapons research facility on the cursed planet. The results had been indisputable. Pryce smiled slowly into her pillow, remembering the twenty-six orders of execution Thrawn had sent to Lothal for her official signature—completely unnecessary, and wonderfully considerate, allowing her to have some part in wiping those Rebel scum from the galaxy.

The _Chimaera_ had returned the night prior with quiet celebrations of the mission’s success, but Pryce hadn’t expected its commanding officer planetside so soon.

Silken sheets slipped from her bare shoulders as she sat up, waiting for Thrawn’s striking silhouette at the bedroom door. Her fingers unconsciously traced the links of the necklace at her throat, the faint patter of autumn rain outside the only sound besides his footfalls. She didn’t wait long.

“ _Ritot_ ,” she called softly at his entrance.

Thrawn’s white teeth gleamed a smile in the shadows. She’d learned a little Cheunh, not much, not yet, but was trying. He always appreciated the effort. And she liked making him smile.

“ _Ritot,”_ he returned the greeting, “I woke you.”

Pryce shrugged at his non-apology, watching openly as Thrawn undressed. It was a show that never got old, as far as she was concerned. Belt and blaster first, white tunic next. Boots and pants last. Shamelessly, she commanded the lights to a higher setting as his undertunic and basics were discarded. Thrawn’s smile broadened, reaching for his robe before heading to the refresher. He didn’t wear sleep pants anymore, not with her, but after his old robe had been destroyed—along with everything else on the burn shuttle—she’d surprised him with another.

Grinning, Pryce lay back and looked to the green-filigreed ceiling, debating whether or not to join him. She was still making up her mind when Thrawn returned.

“Fast shower,” she said, lifting up the sheets for him to glide next to her. Taking advantage, Thrawn moved to her side of the bed, settling comfortably between her legs.

“The Governor of Lothal should not be kept waiting,” he answered, kissing her breathless. 

Over a standard year together, and Thrawn’s lips still held a mythic power to transform her into something radiant and molten. The pleasure they’d uncovered together felt stolen from some ancient god—the resulting sex equal parts sacrament and sacrilege. She burned for him—boldly, zealously. And Thrawn worshipped her with the same blazing faith, something primal and uncomplicated to his constancy and protectiveness. Their combined passion crowded out all else, leaving no more room for doubt, fear, or apologies.

Surrendering to the tidal pull of desire in her breast, Pryce pulled her left leg towards her hip and pushed up into a bridge. The well-practiced ground defense technique flipped Thrawn onto his back. She smirked atop him, as he crossed his arms behind his head, pleased with her maneuver.

Her thighs tightly straddled his waist, and Pryce bent to trace a line from sternum to ear with her tongue. Thrawn’s respiration sped up in response, and she applied just a little more pressure where she knew it would be most torturous. He retaliated as she withdrew, effortlessly spinning her to his side. She let out a good-natured curse at losing her dominance, fingers trailing a path along the planes of his chest.

“Thrawn…”

“Arihnda…” He mimicked her lilt, lips curving in amusement.

“Do you remember, back on the shuttle, when you said that I have you?”

Thrawn dropped a kiss on the edge of her mouth and stayed there, hovering next to her cheek. She closed her eyes, savoring the cool spice of his scent, the nearness of him.

“Of course.”

“And you said I had you for four hundred days.”

Thrawn laughed softly. He knew she was secure enough now in their relationship that she wasn’t seriously considering that an expiration date.

“Yes.”

“It’s been 399 days.”

“It has actually been 388 days, Arihnda,” Thrawn corrected her. “That conversation took place on the eleventh day of our quarantine period.”

“Oh.” She opened her eyes, fingers threading in his hair, as she considered. “But from quarantine day one it’s been 399, right?”

“Correct.” If he was surprised that she had been counting, Thrawn gave no sign. Apparently he had also.

“So what happens now?”

“Are you suggesting I renew my vow, _mon k’ta_?"

Blushing at the pet name, Pryce rolled over, snuggling along his side and sliding her feet down the muscles of his legs.

“Only if you want to.”

Thrawn was quiet a moment, the glow of his eyes intense.

“Arihnda… _Csarcican't vah haabpehn ch'ah?_ ”

She recognized a question, but nothing else. They weren’t words he’d taught her, beyond the interrogative and future tense marker.

“Does agreeing to whatever you just asked mean we won’t be _ch’acert_ anymore?” she guessed, chest tight.

Thrawn nodded. “ _Cabpu’en_.” 

It sounded solemn, making her heart skip a beat. Too serious, too important. Afraid to seek further clarification, Pryce made a face. “Not as pretty as _ch’acert_.”

A faint smile. “ _Cabpen_ , then, if you prefer. A more traditional word.”

“Traditional? They sound almost exactly the same!”

“Arihnda.” His good humor was still there, but edging into something reluctant rather than indulgent. Yes, she was good at reading him now. Pryce took a deep breath, squelching the gnarled ball of fear that twisted in her stomach before it could ensnare the hope blossoming everywhere else.

“Ask me again.”

Thrawn’s eyes glittered, that same depth to them as before, but now gilded with something more, something sacred. This time, she felt his words reverberate in her bones, organic seisms transmitted from his tongue to her ears.

“ _Csarcican't vah haabpehn ch'ah?_ ”

She didn’t hesitate, wouldn’t make him wait for an answer. “ _Mar_. Yes, I’ll be your cabpoo-in.” Thrawn kissed her eyelids in response, stopping her heart. “How many more days does that get me?” she teased.

“ _Cacasn_ , Arihnda.” He kissed her again. “Do you require a translation?”

She shook her head. “I think I got it.” A swell of joy overtook all else, the heated deluge washing away everything but the look in his eyes.

“Of course you do.” Pryce felt the same contentment reflected in his embrace as Thrawn folded her back into his arms. “Now, let us discuss the honeymoon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading my story! It's dedicated to all the wonderful pervs at the Thryce Discord that encouraged me to write it, you know who you are.
> 
> Extra thanks to [JediDryad](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JediDryad/pseuds/JediDryad) for the cheerleading, especially for the last chapter.
> 
> For the language nerds among us, here is the translation of the Cheunh:
> 
>  _Bazrav’evi_ =compulsory fuck buddy  
>  _Ch’acert_ =lover  
>  _Ritot_ =hi/hello  
>  _mon k’ta_ =yummy flower  
>  _Csarcican't vah haabpehn ch'ah?_ =Will you marry me?  
>  _Cabpu’en_ =spouse  
>  _Cabpen_ =wife  
>  _Mar_ =yes  
>  _Cacasn_ =forever


End file.
